Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  The night erupted in shouts, drowned out by the frightening sounds of the steppes warriors war cries as the Ur Nammu voiced their war cries. Fashod hurtled across the distance, and his sword struck down the wounded man before he could draw a weapon.

  Sargon, two steps behind, ripped his sword from its scabbard and flung himself at his foe.

  The guard Sargon had missed had taken a step toward Fashod, but now he turned, sword in hand, to meet Sargon’s attack. Sargon, swinging the sword with all his strength, felt the impact of the stroke up his arm as bronze met bronze, his first experience with such a shock.

  The impact forced his foe back a half step. Sargon never stopped his forward motion, lowering his shoulder and driving it into the man’s chest. The guard, despite his greater bulk, went sprawling, his sword flailing.

  Sargon turned to move beside Fashod, hotly engaged with another warrior. The clash of bronze nearly masked the sound of a sandal crunching on the loose stones. The soldier who’d given the alarm had charged forward to join the fray. He’d closed the distance in a few heart beats, and now he lunged forward, his sword aimed at Sargon’s chest.

  Only Sargon’s quickness saved him from the well aimed stroke. He twisted aside from the ferocious thrust that brushed past his ribs. This attacker knew his trade. He kept moving forward and his shoulder slammed into Sargon, knocking him back and almost off his feet.

  Sargon knew better than to rise up. Instead he crouched low, and dodged an overhand swing. He feinted with a sweeping cut. Then, still close to the ground, he lunged forward, driving the sword’s tip beneath the man’s attempt to parry, and up into his belly.

  Sargon felt his blade bite deep into the man, who cried out in as much surprise as pain. His sword fell from his fingers and clanked against the rocky ground. Hot blood spurted along Sargon’s arm, as he jerked the blade back. His grip nearly came loose, and he had to tighten his fist and wrench the blade free.

  “Run!” Fashod had finished his man, and now grabbed Sargon by the shoulder and shoved him toward the slope.

  Stumbling into a run, Sargon raced for the hill, following Fashod’s steps. They raced across the forty paces or so to reach the slope. Dimly he heard someone scrambling and clawing up the slope, so he knew that at least one of his companions had also broken through. Then Sargon reached the base of the plateau and started up.

  An arrow dug into the earth beside Sargon’s hand, as he gripped a rock to help his ascent. Another clattered off a stone. The sword in his right hand hampered his ascent, but he didn’t dare take the time to sheath it, nor did he intend to drop it.

  More shafts hummed through the darkness, burying themselves into the cliff or snapping against the rock. Meanwhile the tumult from the now fully aroused main camp mixed with the shouts and curses of the men below.

  Sargon heard another arrow hiss over his head. He kept scrambling up the steep hill, slipping and sliding back down every few steps. His shoulders twitched with anticipation, as if his body could sense the oncoming missile that would end Sargon’s life.

  The sentries, however, had yet to recover from their surprise. Only two had survived Fashod’s assault, though others had rushed over to join them. These new arrivals had to string their bows, and now they shot their arrows uphill and into the darkness, aiming at the dim shadows already climbing out of range.

  Ignoring the chaos below, Sargon kept moving. Another arrow struck the earth a pace above him. A large boulder, half buried in the hill, provided some shelter. He ducked behind it, to discover that he was the last to arrive.

  Fashod grunted as he pulled Sargon to safety. “Help Jennat. He’s injured. Start up the hill when I tell you. Garal and I will send a few shafts down the slope to cover you.”

  Another arrow struck the boulder and glanced off. Fashod already had Jennat’s bow in hand. Sargon moved beside the wounded man. An arrow protruded from his left leg.

  “Damn the luck,” the warrior said. “It stings like a scorpion bite.”

  “Go!” Fashod gave the order at the same time he leaned out from the boulder and loosed a shaft. “Hurry!”

  Sargon had time for a brief glance upward. Their first breathless dash had carried them more than half way. Shoving his bloody sword into its scabbard, Sargon grasped Jennat by the waist. They started moving. The first few steps were the hardest, but they soon found a slant that led toward the crest.

  They crawled on hands and knees, clinging to the rocky outcrops to keep from sliding back down, Sargon pushing and shoving to help Jennat along, both gasping for breath. Behind them, Sargon heard Fashod and Garal working their bows, shooting shafts as fast as they could fit them to the string.

  Shouts of confusion still erupted from the base of the hill. Sargon guessed that every one of Garal’s shafts had found a mark. Shooting uphill at night was more difficult than shooting downwards. In moments the enemy archers, who had rushed to the base of the hill, scattered, moving away into the darkness.

  Sargon heard scrambling sounds below him. Fashod and Garal had started climbing, too. Either they had exhausted their supply of arrows, or they decided they couldn’t remain any longer. Sargon and Jennat kept moving, ignoring everything behind them. A stone rattled down the hill. He looked up and saw the blur of faces above him, only a few paces away.

  Hands reached out of the darkness and grabbed Jennat from Sargon’s grasp. Another powerful grip seized Sargon’s left wrist and yanked him upward. The slope grew steeper for the last few steps, and Sargon, already gulping air into his lungs as fast as he could, thanked the gods for the help.

  The twang of bowstrings sounded over his head. Subutai’s warriors were sending shafts down into the darkness. Suddenly the slope leveled. Sargon stumbled forward and fell flat on the ground. All he could think of was that he was still alive, and he’d reached the top. When his heart finally slowed, he pushed himself to his knees.

  “Come. We’re still within range of their arrows.”

  Sargon didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter. Rising to his feet, he found his legs trembling, either from weakness or fear. He stumbled after his guide, following him away from danger. He smelled and heard horses, and saw a small campfire burning up ahead. Sargon slipped to the ground a few steps from the fire, still struggling to catch his breath. This time he stayed where he had fallen.

  No one paid him any attention. Warriors moved about, and Sargon saw some gathering near the fire. He heard Fashod’s voice answering questions in rapid bursts of words that Sargon, in his exhausted condition, couldn’t understand. Even so, he knew what Fashod must be saying. Telling Subutai or the other leaders that they had reached the Alur Meriki.

  Gazing down at his hands, Sargon saw they still shook, either from the mad scramble up the hill, or because he had just killed his first man. Blood mixed with dirt covered his right arm. He tried to brush it off, but the touch of the slippery fluid made him want to retch.

  He could still feel the way the sharp blade slid effortlessly inside the body of the guard, could hear the small gasp of pain and surprise as the Carchemishi soldier felt the shock of the cold bronze. Sargon wondered if the man had time to realize he’d taken a death blow.

  Everything had happened so quickly. In all his practice sessions with Garal or even those back in Akkad, there was always time to prepare, to plan the attack, even a chance to recover from a mistake. Sargon hadn’t had time either to think or be afraid. And now, after the fight had ended, he didn’t know what he felt.

  Someone moved in front of him, blocking the faint light of the fire. Wearily, he lifted his head, and saw Tashanella standing there. The colorful dress she’d worn in the camp the last night he’d seen her was gone, replaced by the patched and faded garment she’d worn when he first noticed her.

  “Are you wounded?” She dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands went to his shoulders, but gently, as if afraid she might hurt him.

  He had to think for a moment. Looking down, he saw that part of hi
s tunic was splattered with blood. “No, I’m fine. It’s not my blood. I . . . I killed a man.” His hand fumbled for his sword, and he realized that the hilt and top of the scabbard were slippery with blood. He shivered at the touch. Sargon had not had time to clean the blade before shoving it into its scabbard.

  “I should clean my sword.” His voice sounded odd in his ears, as if someone else had spoken.

  Sargon knew no warrior should ever return an unclean blade to its scabbard. When the blood dried, it would grip the blade and make it difficult to draw.

  “Yes, of course.” Despite her youth, Tashanella recognized the signs of a man struggling to comprehend what had just befallen him, his mind shocked into near paralysis. “Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

  Without waiting for acceptance, Tashanella reached down and unbuckled his belt. She withdrew the weapon from his waist. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He nodded, but she had already turned and disappeared into the darkness. Sargon glanced around. Even in the middle of the night, the hilltop thronged with people. Every member of the Ur Nammu clan, more than a thousand men, women, and children, filled the hilltop.

  Their horses, too, almost six hundred, took up whatever space remained. In such crowded and unsanitary conditions, not many would be able to sleep.

  Despite the press of people, no one paid Sargon the slightest interest. He might as well have stayed with the Alur Meriki. Again his thoughts returned to the dead man at the bottom of the hill, and he wondered if Eskkar had felt any such feelings of remorse when he killed his first man.

  That brought up another question. Just how many men had his father killed by his own hand? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? Sargon doubted Eskkar had any idea of the number.

  A few months ago, in the safety of Akkad’s ale houses, Sargon and his friends had scoffed at the thought of fighting or killing. Those were tasks for ignorant men who made war their trade, not princes of the city with gold enough to hire as many guards as they needed.

  Safe and secure behind their wealth and power, Sargon and his friends had sipped their wine and laughed at men like his father, Hathor, and the others. Barbarians like the Ur Nammu were beneath their contempt. Sargon remembered the certainty with which he’d dismissed such ideas.

  Instead, Eskkar had turned his son’s world upside down. Now Sargon needed to fight to stay alive. Once again he wished he had paid more attention to all the things his father and his military advisors had sought to teach Sargon. Garal’s teachings had conditioned him and given him the basic skills. Nonetheless, Sargon knew he’d been lucky to kill his man, more experienced and with a powerful arm.

  Sargon thought of the stroke that had brushed past his stomach and shivered. Only his quickness had saved his life. And now, though Sargon and the others had succeeded in reaching their goal, this hilltop might still be the place of his death.

  “Here, drink this.” Tashanella slipped to the ground beside him, and handed him a cup.

  Lost in thought, Sargon hadn’t noticed her return. He had to use both hands to take the cup from her, and despite his efforts, his hands shook. The smell of raw wine reached his nostrils, and he took a sip of the liquid. It felt rough to his mouth, but he drank it down. “I didn’t think there would be any wine in the camp.”

  “Just the one skin. My mother carried it for Subutai.”

  Now he was stealing Subutai’s wine. Sargon laughed, the discordant sound attracting, for the first time, the attention of those nearby. Nevertheless, Sargon emptied the cup. She took it from his hand and set it aside. A damp rag appeared, and Tashanella scrubbed the blood from his face and arm. “There’s no water to clean your tunic, and nothing else to wear. You’ll have to keep it.”

  Ignoring her ministrations, Sargon put his arms around her and pulled her close. For a moment he just held her tight against him, inhaling the scent of her hair. He didn’t know how long he held her, but slowly the fear and trembling passed from his body. Tashanella was real, and she was holding him. Somehow Sargon knew she understood. Thoughts of death and blood gradually eased from his mind.

  “Tashanella, you’re the reason I came back. Otherwise, I might have just slipped away. I know . . .”

  “If you hadn’t come back, I would have come looking for you.” She raised her lips to his, and they shared a kiss that began with gentleness and ended with passion.

  He pulled her down beside him, and buried his face in her throat. Sargon couldn’t control the occasional tremble that passed through his limbs. She stroked his hair, and murmured soothing words. Sargon had seen his mother touch his father the same way.

  After awhile, his heart slowed, and his mind regained control of his body. Sargon remembered why he had returned, and what still needed to be done.

  “You heard the Alur Meriki are coming?”

  “Yes, I was at my father’s tent when Fashod brought the news. He said you convinced them to help us. That’s all I heard before I came looking for you.”

  He told her the events at the Council Meeting, and of Chief Bekka’s need for a victory. “Though they may not come. Bekka may have changed his mind, or others could have forced him to abandon the idea of fighting the Carchemishi. Or he may just arrive too late to help us.”

  “Then all that matters is that you have done your best. My father, all the Ur Nammu will owe you a great debt.”

  “We still may not get out of this alive.”

  “Then we will die together. I will have no other life without you, Sargon of Akkad. But I feel in my heart that you have yet much to accomplish. I do not think this will be our end.”

  “Then we’ll face whatever comes. Together.”

  A young boy called out Tashanella’s name, searching for her in the crowd.

  She glanced around. “We’re over here.”

  The boy trotted over, his teeth glistening in the faint light.

  “Here it is.” The boy handed Tashanella Sargon’s sword and belt. “I sharpened it. Father said to bring him.”

  Sargon recognized the boy as one of Tashanella’s younger brothers. He took the weapon from Tashanella and drew the blade half way from the scabbard. The bronze hilt and blade had been cleansed of blood, and the edge sharpened and polished. Sargon found the spot where the first guard had parried the blade. The deep nick remained, but some of it had been smoothed out.

  “We will go to my father,” Tashanella said. “Then we’ll find a place for ourselves, to spend the night.”

  Sargon stood and belted the sword around his waist. “Then let’s hurry. The sooner we finish with your father, the sooner we can be together.” Sargon held her for a moment, then took her hand, holding it tight. Alone in each other’s company, they followed the young boy back to where Subutai waited.

  31

  By midmorning, the demons of last night had faded, driven away as much by Tashanella’s love making as a good night’s rest. Her father hadn’t commented when Sargon and his daughter approached hand in hand. The time for such thoughts had passed.

  Instead, Subutai called his clan leaders and whatever warriors stood nearby. In a loud voice, he praised Sargon both for his courage and his success with the Alur Meriki. And after last night’s fight on the slope, Subutai declared that Sargon had become a warrior and a clan brother to the Ur Nammu.

  To Sargon’s surprise, he felt prouder of Subutai’s words than any praise his father or mother had ever bestowed on him. He might not have fought with bravery and skill, but he had fought, and he now realized how big a role luck played in staying alive. A sobering lesson, to be sure.

  The warriors surrounding him all voiced their thanks, many of them coming close to touch his arm or shoulder, one brother warrior to another. By then Fashod and the others had told everyone the story of Sargon’s challenges, and every man there understood all the risks that the boy from Akkad had taken to help the Ur Nammu.

  At last Sargon broke free. Tashanella was busy helping her mother, so he wandered away, until
he found Garal testing a fresh bowstring. Somehow the man had managed to hang on to his bow during last night’s climb.

  After Garal finished, they walked the entire length of the hilltop, studying the enemy below. In daylight, the flat portion of the hill seemed even more crowded than last night, with horses and people sharing much of the same ground. The Carchemishi had ringed about half the hill.

  Only a few guarded those places too steep even for a man on foot, let alone a horse, to descend. The enemy had taken their position just out of bowshot range, about a hundred and fifty paces from the base of the hill.

  Sargon stopped at the place where they had ascended last night. “No wonder the guards weren’t all that alert.” From above, the slope looked even more difficult to climb than it had seemed from below.

  To their left, they could see the holding area for the Carchemishi horses. The rope corrals were almost empty now, as the enemy horsemen had mounted at first light, in case the defenders tried to ride down and attack.

  Sargon and Garal continued their inspection, and soon enough they reached the incline where the Ur Nammu had ascended. About forty or fifty paces wide, it looked steep enough to slow down any attacker. At the base, and just out of arrow range, the besiegers had dug a ditch that formed a half circle. To Sargon’s eyes, it appeared both wide and deep enough to stop a horse.

  “Chinua says they dug the ditch in half a day,” Garal commented.

  Sargon had seen the efficient work of soldiers before. They knew how to work together to accomplish much in a short time.

  “Have they paid any attention to the bluffs we came from?”

  From up here, Sargon could see all the way to the foothills, including the low ridges where the Alur Meriki scouting party even now lay hidden, and from where Sargon and his companions had set out on last night’s venture.

  “The Carchemishi sent out two patrols just after dawn,” Garal said. “Subutai had men watching from here, to see if they discovered any traces of the Alur Meriki horses. One group entered the bluffs, but didn’t reach the place where we had hidden. The other just patrolled along the edge of the bluffs. If they even found our tracks, they didn’t show it.”