by Sam Barone
“And I will be waiting.”
“I must go. It’s already late, and Fashod and the others will be eager to depart.”
Still holding her hand, they walked back toward the camp. Fashod’s tent was on the way, and the clan’s second in command already stood by his horse. Garal and Jennat stood beside him. If they thought Sargon’s behavior odd or unmanly, no one said anything.
Sargon released Tashanella’s hand and let her continue on her own. She, too, would have much to do, helping her family prepare for their flight. He stared at her lithe form as she walked away, her shoulders shaking with her tears, but she was too strong to glance back or slow her step. Sargon wondered if he would ever see her again.
“Are you ready to ride?” Fashod’s voice held only concern. Nor did he say anything about waiting for Sargon’s arrival.
“Yes.” Sargon and Garal had made their preparations earlier. Sargon had selected two prime horses from Fashod’s own stock, and Garal had approved the choices. The animals, big, powerful, and well trained, stood waiting.
“Then you’ll need this.” Fashod handed Sargon a sword. “Your father left it with Subutai, to give to you . . . when the time was right.”
Sargon drew the blade halfway from the scabbard and glanced at the weapon. It was not the sword he’d carried in Akkad. This one lacked any ornamentation on the guard, and the hilt was bound in plain leather strips with a simple ball as the counterweight.
A fighting man’s weapon, his father would say, not one to be carried around the city to impress the idlers and tavern dwellers. Sargon recognized the work of Asmar and his family, the master sword-makers in Akkad. This sword would not fail Sargon.
Since only warriors approved by the clan leaders could carry such a weapon, Sargon understood the significance of the gift. From this day forward, in their eyes he’d become a warrior.
“I’ve done nothing to earn this.” Sargon slid the blade back into its scabbard.
“Makko received his sword last night,” Garal said. “He’s done no more than you. You both have earned the right.”
“In these times, many young men must become warriors.” Fashod’s voice now held a hint of urgency. He swung himself onto his horse. “It’s almost midmorning. Time to go.”
Sargon grimaced, but he buckled his new sword around his waist. He settled onto his horse, and the four men rode out, almost unnoticed. He’d spent the last sixteen days on the back of a horse, and this new journey promised to be longer and more difficult. At least he’d learned the difference between riding, and running for your life.
Even Garal didn’t look happy at the prospect of another arduous ride. Jennat had enjoyed an extra day’s rest. Fashod, aside from his usual rides to inspect the camp’s outlying guards, had spent most of the last ten days close to his tent.
All of them tried to forget the somber mood that had filled the camp. Fashod never looked back. Well before midday, the camp site would be empty, and the Ur Nammu on the run.
Fashod set a rapid pace from the start, and he selected the path. Each rider led his second horse, its only burden a bulging water skin, a fat food pouch, and a small sack of grain for the horse.
Out of habit, Sargon had taken his usual place at the rear, but Garal waved him forward.
“Your place now is to ride with Fashod,” he shouted with a grin. “On this journey I will be the one gathering firewood.”
Garal and Jennat carried bows, and each man’s quiver contained an extra handful of arrows. As leader of the little troop, Fashod had a pair of lances on his back. Sargon had accepted one also, in addition to his sword and knife. He knew that he was not as proficient with a bow yet, and for him, the lance was a better weapon for close fighting.
Fashod led the way northeast, toward the mountains, pushing the horses as hard as he could. The grassy terrain made for smooth riding, and they stopped only to rest their mounts. With each rider alternating between two horses, the four men covered plenty of ground by the end of the day. The sun had already dipped below the horizon before Fashod gave the order to halt.
Though his days as a horse boy had ended, Sargon still had to care for his two horses. On this ride, each man saw to his own animals, checking them to make sure they remained sound. One thing had not changed. Sargon fell asleep the moment he rolled himself up in his blanket.
The sun’s pink rays had just reached out over the horizon when Garal shook Sargon awake. The horses received their handful of grain, the men gulped down some dried meat, and with a grunt, Fashod ordered them to move out.
At noon, Fashod halted to rest the horses. Sargon stretched his stiff leg muscles by walking around in circles. His backside once again complained from the constant riding, but he knew better than to say anything.
“You’ve become a capable horseman,” Fashod said, as they tended to their horses.
“Garal is a good teacher,” Sargon said. “How far have we come?”
“Mmm, yesterday, maybe sixty, maybe seventy miles. So far today, another thirty-five. We should get at least that much more in before darkness.”
No wonder the steppes warriors generated so much respect. To cover so many miles in a single day was almost beyond belief. Most people in Akkad or the nearby villages never traveled more than twenty miles from the place where they were born.
“And where will we find the Alur Meriki?” Garal’s voice held only curiosity, not concern.
“Ten days ago, one of our patrols spotted them about this distance,” Fashod said. “So we may meet up with them any time now.”
So the moment of truth might arrive with little warning, Sargon decided.
“Sargon, when we encounter them, do you wish me to speak to them?”
The polite question carried subtle implications. Fashod might be a leader of the Ur Nammu, but when they crossed paths with the Alur Meriki, things would be different. Sargon felt Garal and Jennat’s eyes on him, as they waited to hear Sargon’s answer.
Sargon hesitated only a moment. “No, I think it is best that I speak with them.” With those words, he committed himself to dealing with the Alur Meriki, not as one of the Ur Nammu, but as a leader of Akkad.
Fashod nodded. “Then prepare your thoughts now while you have time. The moment may come suddenly. Now let’s get going. The horses have had enough rest.”
But we haven’t. Even so, Sargon thought of Tashanella and kept his weakness to himself. The punishing ride continued. Soft white clouds filled the sky, and gave them a respite from the hot sun. As they moved north, the ground began to rise, a gradual upslope that would increase as they drew closer to the mountains.
The middle of the afternoon had just passed when Fashod slowed his horse to stop. Sargon, wrapped in his thoughts, lifted his head at the unexpected halt. Instinctively, he followed Fashod’s gaze.
About a mile and a half way, a band of riders had gathered across a ridge top. Sargon had good eyes, and even at that distance he could see that the color red dominated their garments, with red streamers dangling from lance and bow tips.
They didn’t move, just sat on their horses, watching. Sargon counted ten of them, and there might be any number of them behind the ridge.
“Closer than I expected. I didn’t think we’d catch sight of their scouts until tomorrow.” Fashod stared at them for a moment, then turned to face Sargon. “They’ll expect us to turn around. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Ready or not, the time had come. Sargon touched his heels to the horse, took the lead, and guided it into a canter, heading straight for the Alur Meriki outriders.
Fashod now took position on Sargon’s left, his horse half a length behind Sargon’s. The Alur Meriki horsemen watched them approach, but did nothing, no doubt thinking that if their old enemy wanted to close with them, so much the better.
“I would stop a quarter mile from them,” Fashod advised. “That will tell them that we wish to talk, not fight.”
Sargon nodded, and kept his eyes on the horsemen. He di
dn’t trust his voice. The clan that had tried to kill his father so many times waited ahead. Sargon knew that even in Eskkar’s prime, he would not have challenged ten warriors with only four.
At about a quarter mile, Sargon eased his horse to a gradual stop. Fashod held up his empty right hand, and waved it back and forth. If he held a weapon, it would have been a challenge to fight. But the open hand signified a wish to speak.
The Alur Meriki did nothing. They remained immobile on their horses.
“They’re not waving us on,” Sargon said.
“No, they’re not. Which means they don’t want to talk to us.”
Sargon frowned at the insult. “Well, they will.” He clucked to his horse and urged it forward once again. He kept the pace at an easy canter. Halfway there, he could see the Alur Meriki warriors speaking to each other.
“No Ur Nammu has spoken to an Alur Meriki in over twenty years,” Fashod said. “Perhaps we should head for a different part of the ridge, so we can face them on equal ground.”
Sargon didn’t answer, and he kept heading straight toward the warriors, giving them the advantage of the higher ground. He halted a hundred paces away, just within long bowshot range.
“I’ll ride ahead and speak to them,” Sargon said.
“No. We ride together.” Fashod’s words declared his determination. “Garal, take Sargon’s extra horse, and his lance, too. No sense looking like we want to fight.” Fashod handed his second mount’s halter to Jennat.
Once again, Fashod waved his right arm back and forth. The Alur Meriki still made no sign to acknowledge they had even seen those waving at them. The Alur Meriki rested their strung bows across their horses, but no one had fitted a shaft on them yet. But Sargon knew how fast that could be done.
“Damn them,” Sargon muttered, angry at their silence. He clucked again to the horse, and started the animal forward at a walk. The gap between the two groups closed, and with every step, Sargon waited for the Alur Meriki order that would rain arrows down on them.
He picked out the leader of the party easy enough, a warrior in his prime, with perhaps twenty five seasons. He was the only warrior whose bow remained slung across his back, but a lance lay across the horse’s neck.
Sargon’s heart beat faster and faster, but he forced all fear from his face. From here on, he had to act the part of a leader of men. Sargon tried to copy the stern face his father wore when something annoyed him, a face Sargon had seen often enough, and not from a distance. When twenty paces remained between them, Sargon pulled back on the halter and eased the horse to a stop.
Now only ten paces separated them. Sargon could see the leader clearly now. The warrior possessed a strong and powerful build that rippled with muscles, combined with a face chiseled out of stone. Black as midnight hair hung straight down to his shoulders. Sargon wondered whether he and his companions had, in their bad luck, encountered a hard head, someone who preferred to fight rather than use his wits.
“A good day for a ride.” Sargon offered one of the traditional greetings of the Alur Meriki.
There was no response. Sargon shrugged.
“I am Sargon, son of Eskkar, leader of the Hawk Clan, and the King of Akkad. I have come to speak with Urgo, the Sarum of the Alur Meriki. Can you take me to him?”
Despite the slight differences between the two tribes language, he saw that his words were understood, and thanked the gods for all the abuse Garal had heaped upon him until Sargon learned the language. If the Alur Meriki didn’t recognize his father’s name, Sargon guessed they were all going to die.
The leader of the Alur Meriki frowned and his eyes examined Sargon more closely. “Urgo is no longer Sarum of the Clan.”
The voice sounded as hard as the taut muscles on the man’s chest. Sargon refused to let that bad news show on his face. “Then I would speak with your new Sarum. I have important news that he must hear. A great danger threatens your clan.”
“The Alur Meriki do not heed the words of Ur Nammu scum.” The leader glanced at the three men just behind Sargon, then spat on the ground.
Well, that was plain enough, Sargon thought. The friendly approach didn’t seem to make an impression. All the same, they hadn’t attacked, not yet, so they might still be honoring the oath his father made them swear, to not attack the Ur Nammu.
Sargon moved his horse forward a few paces, so that he stood apart from his companions. This time he put a hard edge to his words, unconsciously mimicking his father in one of his angry moods.
“You are not to decide what words your Sarum is to hear or not to hear.” Sargon waited a moment, then went on. “My father, in case you have already forgotten, granted you access to the waters of the stream when he and his soldiers could have let you all die of thirst. Now, I have important news for the leader of your clan. If you wish your people to survive, you will take me to your Sarum at once. There is no time to waste.”
The face of the leader hardened even more. “You claim to be the son of the outcast Eskkar. Yet you ride alone into the lands of the Alur Meriki with these Ur Nammu dogs.”
“I do not claim to be anyone,” Sargon declared. “I told you who I am. If you do not believe me, take me to your Sarum and let him decide.”
“Perhaps I should just kill you now.”
A ripple of movement went down the Alur Meriki line, as warriors tightened their grips on their weapons and made ready to attack.
Sargon shook his head in disbelief, as if amazed at the man’s stupidity. “I wonder what my father will do when he learns that some insignificant leader of ten killed his son. Do you think that would make King Eskkar angry? Angry enough to wipe every last Alur Meriki from the earth?”
“It seems the Alur Meriki have neither honor nor wisdom.” Fashod moved his horse a few steps forward, until he stood beside Sargon. “They would rather fight than listen to one who could save them.”
A flush came over the leader’s face, and his hand tightened on the haft of his lance. He clearly had not enjoyed being described as insignificant.
This is how it begins and ends, Sargon thought, with a few angry words uttered in the heat of the moment.
“Your father is not here to protect you, even if you are truly Eskkar’s son.”
At least he hadn’t given the order to kill them. Sargon realized that the only thing keeping them alive was his father’s name. “What is your name?”
“Why should I tell you my name?”
“Because I’ve told you mine,” Sargon answered. “Your orders are to scout the lands ahead of the caravan, and report what you find to your clan leader. Now you and your men have found someone who has information that can help your people. You can try to kill us, or you can follow your orders. But do not think your men will protect you, when your new Sarum, whoever he is, learns what you have done. He will take your head and send it to my father, as an offering. So if you want to fight, then give the order and be done with it.”
Sargon moved his right hand to the hilt of his sword, stared into the stony face confronting him, and waited. There wasn’t anything else to say.
A gust of wind rippled through them, and the horses shifted uneasily, ears moving back and forth. It gave the leader of the Alur Meriki an extra moment to consider his response.
“What do you want to tell our Sarum?”
The warrior had weighed his chances and come to the right decision. At least Sargon hoped the man had.
“Since when does a leader of ten sit in on the councils of his clan leaders? Your Sarum will tell you whatever he sees fit.”
“You will tell me. Or you will not go anywhere.”
Sargon leaned forward and took a firmer grip on his sword. “Then you are in my way and I will have to ride over you. If I have to kill you, I will. Your men will not interfere, now that they see that you have forsaken both your oath as a warrior to my father, and your duty to your clan.”
Taking his time, Sargon slid the sword from its scabbard, holding it across his che
st so that the blade’s tip was level with his left ear. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the halter. He kept his gaze on the leader, but out of the corner of his eye he saw hands tightening on their bows.
Every Alur Meriki, including their stony-faced leader, recognized the signs of a man readying himself for a fight. Sargon waited, ready to kick the horse forward in a futile attack, four against ten.
“Wait! Put away your sword. I will take you to the caravan. But if our Sarum decides you have wasted his time, I swear to the gods that I will kill you myself.”
Sargon eased his grip on the halter, and let himself lean back. “That day will never come, no matter what your Council of Elders decides.” He carefully returned his weapon to its scabbard. “Then let us ride. We have wasted enough time talking.”
“Stay here.” The words came out in a snarl of rage. “I must speak to my men first.”
With a savage jerk of his hand, the Alur Meriki leader turned his horse around and cantered about a hundred paces away. An order shouted over his shoulder brought his men to him, most of them glancing over their shoulders as they moved away from the Ur Nammu.
Taking his time, Sargon eased his horse to the top of the ridge line. He hadn’t liked looking up at the warriors. Fashod and the others joined him.
“I thought he was going to cut your head off,” Garal remarked in a low voice. “You should choose your enemies with more care. You are not yet ready to fight one as strong as he.”
Sargon grunted, feeling light-headed, as if he had just escaped certain death. He doubted if he would ever be ready for such an encounter. “You thought I was going to attack him? I was going to order you to do it.”
Jennat laughed, a sharp burst of sound that made the Alur Meriki turn their heads toward them. Even Fashod smiled.
“Keep your words polite, and don’t do anything to anger them further,” Fashod cautioned. “I would like to return to my wives one of these days.”
The Alur Meriki discussion went on longer than Sargon expected. He’d begun to grow impatient when it broke up at last. The leader of ten rode back alone to face Sargon. “I will lead the way to the caravan, with four of my men. The rest must remain here to patrol.”