Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  In spite of his worries, exhaustion overcame his thoughts and he slipped into a deep but troubled slumber.

  Across the space that separated Sargon and the Ur Nammu from the Alur Meriki, Yassur turned to Unegen and Den’rack. “Is he really the son of the outcast Eskkar? Are the Ur Nammu now our friends?”

  Unegen lifted his hands and let them drop. He related what had passed at the council meeting to Yassur and his men, who gathered around, eager to hear the news.

  “So, Chief Bekka decided that it helps our clan to help the Ur Nammu. And it will do no harm to have Akkad in our debt. Besides, Trayack wanted to kill them all. Perhaps that is why Bekka is helping them.”

  Yassur shook his head and spat on the ground. “Always the clan chiefs quarrel amongst themselves. Each one wants to be Sarum, no matter how many dead warriors it takes. Look at Bekka. A few years ago, he was a leader of fifty. Now he is Sarum.”

  “Well, when you are a clan leader,” Unegen said, “you may hold different thoughts. As for me, I trust Bekka more than I ever trusted Thutmose-sin.”

  “And this boy, Sargon,” Den’rack spoke for the first time, “there is something about him. He’s as foolish as he is brave, but he knows the ways of a leader. I’m glad I did not kill him when I had the chance.”

  “Yes, killing him would have saved us a long ride,” Unegen said, his voice as cheerful as if he were talking about a hunt. “Well, it’s too late for that now. It’s time to get ready for battle.”

  Sargon was the last to awaken from his sleep. When he did, he saw Fashod and his companions had started up the hill, to take one final look at the Carchemishi. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sargon followed them up the slope and dropped to ground alongside Garal. Sargon’s eyes widened at the sight across the plain.

  Campfires burned every hundred paces or so in a ring around the base of the hill. Tending them were hundreds of Carchemishi fighters, weapons at the ready, should the Ur Nammu try to come down the hill, either to attack or break through the lines.

  Two hundred paces behind the ring of men, almost on a direct line between the Alur Meriki vantage point and the Ur Nammu plateau, a herd of horses had been collected into a makeshift corral. More armed men guarded the animals, with patrols extending out halfway to the ridge where Sargon lay on his stomach.

  “We won’t be able to sneak up and steal their horses again,” Garal whispered. “Our night raid has made them wary.”

  Sargon remembered how nervous he’d been that night, not that long ago, just standing there and holding the riders’ mounts. “How will we get by them?”

  “Fashod thinks that on the south side, the hill is too steep for horses or armed men to come down, but a few might be able to climb up.”

  Sargon wasn’t so sure. The location was a long way off. They would have to swing wide of the patrols to approach from the south.

  “Maybe Unegen can create a diversion?”

  “Good idea. Fashod suggested it, too,” Garal said, “but Unegen says no. He thinks this place is perfect for an attack against the enemy’s herd. He doesn’t want to do anything to make the invaders aware of his presence.”

  “That’s a big herd, at least eight or nine hundred horses.” Sargon studied the herd. No wonder Unegen wanted to raid it. Sargon’s father had said many times that, to barbarians, stealing horses from your enemy was more impressive than killing them.

  “The ground on the far side of the hill must not be favorable to hold a herd,” Garal mused. “Except for the men riding night patrol, Yassur says they’ve collected all of their horses at this one place.”

  “There must be another hundred riders on patrol,” Sargon estimated. Still, the horse herd meant nothing to Sargon. He shifted his gaze back to the south, to examine the open space they would have to cross. His father had often spoken of the importance of studying the ground as best you could before any venture.

  Fashod moved up beside them. “Come. It’s almost time to go, and we need to prepare.”

  He led the way down the slope, and they collected their weapons. Fashod ran his sharpening stone over his sword a few times, then passed it to Sargon, who did the same. Unegen joined them, carrying a quiver of arrows. “Each of my men has given up a few arrows, so you can have a full quiver. You may need the extra shafts when you reach the top.”

  Garal and Jennat had already strung their bows and slipped them over their shoulders. Now they, too, sharpened their swords. Sargon slung his lance across his back.

  Den’rack appeared, carrying a water skin in one hand and a food sack in the other. “Eat and drink as much as you can now. Don’t take any food with you. There will be plenty of fresh meat up there.”

  It took Sargon a moment to follow the thought. A few slaughtered horses could supply plenty of raw meat. Sargon didn’t enjoy the prospect, though his father’s men had been forced to eat a few horses at the battle of the stream.

  Yassur joined them. “My men will guide you in. We’ll swing wide to the east before turning toward the hilltop. We should be able to ride within a mile without being seen or heard.”

  A few more moments, and they were ready.

  “Good luck to you.” Unegen clasped arms with Fashod, the gesture of friendship. “Tell your Sarum to hold out until Chief Bekka arrives. That should give you the chance to break loose. When you can wait no longer, give us the sign. We may be able to help.”

  Sargon realized that Fashod and Unegen must have arranged a way to signal to the Alur Meriki.

  Fashod nodded. “I understand. Tell all your men we are in your debt.”

  Jennat and Garal also offered their thanks to Unegen and his men. Then Sargon faced the Alur Meriki leaders. “Good hunting to you, Den’rack, and to you, Unegen.”

  “Until we meet again, Sargon of Akkad.” Den’rack’s voice sounded as confident as his words.

  They mounted their horses and moved out, taking position behind Unegen. They let the animals pick their own pace through the darkness. Yassur, on foot, led the way, selecting the best path over the indistinct ground. The moon had risen, but it was young and shed little light. However, what hindered them now would help them soon enough.

  As they moved slowly through the shadows, Sargon glanced up at the stars. His father often spoke about the stars and what they meant for men. Sargon had always considered his father’s ideas foolish, despite the fact that many of Akkad’s wise men said much the same.

  Now, lifting his eyes to the night sky, Sargon wasn’t so sure. The stars could not be counted, and he knew that some wandered across the sky, moving little by little until a year passed, and they returned to the place from which they started.

  “What are you looking at?” Garal rode right behind him.

  “Nothing. Just the stars.” Sargon took one last at the sky. He wondered what his father thought about before he rode into battle. Strange that Sargon had never thought to ask him that simple question. Now it was too late.

  30

  Scattered clouds passed across the face of the moon and darkened the night sky. Sargon fretted about the slow pace as they moved toward the Ur Nammu refuge. He could dismount and walk faster than the plodding pace set by Yassur, Unegen, and the other Alur Meriki warriors leading the way.

  Fashod, however, showed no signs of wanting to hurry. Sargon knew Fashod wanted to make his final approach in the middle of the night, when the guards would be least alert.

  Once again Sargon found himself and his fate in the hands of others, as he followed the horse and rider in front of him. Part of him wanted to rush ahead, but another part wished he were back in Akkad, safe in some pleasant ale house. Soon he would be fighting, not for his life, but to save the life of Tashanella. In all his imaginings, Sargon had never once thought about dying to save another.

  The moon had reached its highest point and started its descent when Sargon heard Unegen’s whisper down the line.

  “This is close enough. Everyone dismount.”

  Sargon swung down
from his horse, handed the halter to one of Unegen’s men, and checked his weapons. An Alur Meriki warrior approached carrying a water skin, offering one last chance to drink. Sargon realized his mouth was dry, as much from fear as from thirst, and he gulped down as much as he could hold.

  He heard Garal and a few others taking a piss, and suddenly the urge to do the same almost overpowered him. Sargon moved a few steps from the horses and relieved himself. It took far longer than usual to empty his bladder. When he finished, he found Fashod waiting for him.

  “Follow me,” Fashod said. “Single file.” With those brief words, he started toward the plateau, its jutting height visible in the moonlight and the glow from a Carchemishi watch fire.

  Unegen whispered a farewell. “Good hunting.”

  Within moments, the Alur Meriki warriors and the horses vanished into the darkness, and Sargon and his companions were alone. No one had to tell Sargon to keep silent. Their sandals made little sound against the hard earth sprinkled with patches of grass that reached his knees.

  Nevertheless, Sargon had to watch his footing. A misstep might send him tumbling to the ground, and even worse, might be heard by the enemy guards.

  As the small group drew closer to the hilltop, Fashod moved ever slower. Once they had to drop to the ground, motionless, when an enemy patrol loomed up out of the darkness. Sargon counted ten riders, and for a moment thought he and his companions would be discovered.

  But these men were concentrating on the ground before them, and only a few bothered to glance about. They passed within fifty paces without noticing the four men hugging the ground.

  When they’d ridden off, Fashod moved to Sargon’s side, his face only a hand’s breadth away. “There’s a watch fire ahead. Don’t look at it. Keep your eyes on the ground and watch where you step. I’ll be right behind you. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Sargon didn’t trust his voice to say anything else. Fear had reached into his body and clutched his stomach, but he knew he couldn’t let his companions down.

  “Good.” Fashod gripped Sargon’s shoulder. “Just follow orders.”

  To Sargon’s surprise, Fashod told Garal to lead the way, while Fashod brought up the rear, walking just behind Sargon. He heard the occasional horse whinny from the distant herd. Other odd sounds carried through the night. Sargon’s heart jumped at every shifting shadow, expecting to be discovered. If the Carchemishi discovered them, Sargon and his companions would be killed, or even worse, captured and tortured.

  The Ur Nammu kept moving forward. They covered another two hundred paces, and by now had crossed within the outer lines of the Carchemishi sentries.

  Suddenly Garal and Jennat ducked down. Fashod’s hand reached up and pulled Sargon down as well. Sargon heard voices ahead. Straining his eyes, he spotted two men sitting on a rock. Both faced the hilltop. Fashod’s whisper came. “Arrows.”

  Garal and Jennat disappeared into the shadows moving toward the unsuspecting guards. Peering over a scraggly bush, Sargon stared at the two sentries about seventy or eighty paces ahead. He heard the men speaking, but couldn’t make out the words.

  Time seemed to drag by. Sargon was about to ask Fashod what had gone wrong when he glimpsed two shadows rise up behind the sentinels. Then he heard the snap of bowstrings, followed by a single gasp of pain. Both guards toppled to the ground, struck in the back at close range by the powerful shafts.

  Garal and Jennat rushed forward, to make sure their targets were indeed dead or unable to cry out. Sargon turned to Fashod, who had raised himself up, one hand holding Sargon’s arm. The warrior took his time scanning the landscape. The sounds of the guards’ death, which had seemed loud to Sargon, had gone unheard.

  “Come.” Fashod moved toward the other warriors, jogging over the ground.

  Sargon followed, clutching his lance in his right hand while trying to make as little noise as Fashod. In a moment, they had reached Garal, but Jennat had already moved on ahead. Sargon glanced down at the dead men sprawled at his feet.

  He had seen death before, witnessed executions in Akkad’s marketplace, but never violent death. Even in the raid on the Carchemishi camp, he hadn’t got close enough to see men die, their lives ended. Now dead bodies lay within reach, and he could smell their blood, still spilling into the sandy earth.

  Fashod and Garal dropped to one knee, and Sargon did the same. No one moved, and the moon seemed to travel faster and faster across the sky. Finally Sargon turned to Fashod. “Why are we waiting?”

  “One can see as well as four,” Fashod whispered back.

  Sargon gritted his teeth and waited.

  Then Jennat loomed up in the darkness to rejoin them. The four huddled together, heads almost touching, to confer.

  “There’s a guard post at the base of the hill,” Jennat said. “Eight men. The only way I can see up the slope is right in front of them.”

  “Are you sure we can’t go around?” Fashod’s voice remained calm.

  “I don’t think so,” Jennat whispered. “There are steep rocks all around the slope, loose rocks everywhere. It’s likely the best approach, since the guards are there. Unless you want to search for another way up the slope.”

  “No, the two dead sentries might be discovered at any moment.” Fashod took this setback in stride. “Damn. We’ll have to kill them. We can’t take the time to find another way.”

  Sargon glanced toward the plateau, looming up from the earth. He had no idea how steep the slope might be, or even if it could be climbed in the dark. Shadows shifted and moved, and some of that movement came from Carchemishi sentries. He couldn’t tell if any were moving in this direction.

  “The moment we start up the slope,” Jennat said, “they’ll hear us. We’ll be easy targets.”

  “All the more reason to go through them,” Fashod whispered. “If they’re all dead, they won’t be able to stop us. It will take some time before more soldiers can reach this place.”

  Fashod raised his head and surveyed the enemy post once again. When he ducked down, he unslung the lance from his shoulder.

  “Remember, if anyone is wounded and can’t make the climb, he’ll have to fend for himself. Garal and Jennat, target your shafts at the guards starting from the left. Sargon and I will use our lances on the two on the right. Wait for us to throw. As soon as the way is clear, start climbing.”

  Sargon’s heart beat faster, and wondered if the others could hear it. His mouth had gone dry again, and he had to force himself to swallow. In moments he would be fighting for his life. Nor could he expect help from any of the others.

  Every man knew what needed to be done – at least one of them had to get to the top of the hill and give Subutai the message that the Alur Meriki were coming. If Sargon faltered or fell wounded, he would be left behind.

  Fashod moved closer to Sargon, his mouth only a hand’s breath from Sargon’s ear. “Take the one on the rightmost side, Sargon,” Fashod ordered. “If your lance doesn’t bring him down, keep moving forward and use your sword. They won’t be expecting an attack from behind. Just get past him and start up the slope. Don’t wait for anyone. I’ll tell you when to throw. Understand?”

  Sargon had a handful of questions, but found himself nodding agreement. His mouth felt dry, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “The moment we throw our lances,” Fashod whispered, this time to Garal and Jennat, “loose your arrows, and move forward. Keep shooting until they’re all dead.” Fashod grasped Sargon by the arm. “Let’s go.”

  Sargon loosened the cord that held the lance over his shoulder. He grasped the weapon in his right hand, making sure he held it firmly by the grip. His hand started to sweat, and he rubbed it hard against his tunic, grateful that no one could see the gesture in the dark. He wondered if the others noticed his fear.

  Fashod took the lead, moving forward and creeping low toward the sentries. The others fanned out on his left side. Sargon remembered Garal’s teachings, and he kept his eyes on the gr
ound before him. Now was not the time to trip and sprawl on his face, alerting half the enemy camp. Sargon recalled another reason to keep his gaze down. At night the whites of a man’s eyes could be seen at a distance.

  The eight sentries were scattered about, most sitting on the ground, a few looking up the slope. One lay stretched out, taking his ease. Two or three talked among themselves, no doubt trying to stay awake. They obviously felt safe enough. No fighters from the hilltop could come down without making plenty of noise.

  The distance between Sargon and his target closed. Fifty paces, then forty. Easy distance for the bows, but still too long for a flung lance. Sargon couldn’t believe they hadn’t been seen or heard yet. Thirty paces. By now he could see the one he had to kill. The unsuspecting man sat on a rock, facing the slope, and talking with his companion.

  Fashod slowed his pace even more. Sargon’s heart pounded in his chest, so loud that he felt certain the guards could hear it. Twenty paces, then fifteen. His right hand, again damp with sweat, gripped the lance. Ten paces. The guards surely heard their approach by now. Then Fashod rose from his crouch and Sargon knew the time had come. Fashod drew back his arm. Sargon, too, prepared to throw.

  “Look out!”

  The warning boomed out, before Fashod could hurl the lance. The alarm came from Sargon’s right and echoed off the slope. A soldier, or perhaps a watch commander making his rounds, had practically strolled up on Sargon and his friends.

  Fashod never hesitated. Ignoring the man who gave the alarm, Fashod threw the lance and charged forward. Bowstrings twanged. Sargon, too, hurled his lance at his original target, glimpsing it as it flew through the night. As he rushed forward, he saw that neither his lance nor Fashod’s had struck a killing blow.

  Both targets reacted swiftly. Fashod’s man had risen and turned in the same moment. The lance tore through the man’s left arm, wrenching a cry from his lips. Sargon’s throw missed completely, either from a poor aim or because the man had whirled around.