by Sam Barone
The warrior’s horse burst in among a mass of the Carchemishi invaders. Now Garal had drawn his sword, and Sargon saw the blade descend once. Then Garal’s horse went down, either from a weapon thrust or because it lost its footing in the struggling mass of men.
Sargon saw the sweat-stained faces of his foes, eyes unnaturally wide and open mouthed. In that same instant of recognition, he glimpsed the terror of the Ur Nammu attack stamped on every visage. Nevertheless, the enemy’s fear didn’t prevent him from fighting for his life.
With a final leap, Sargon’s horse jumped over a dead body and into the midst of the invaders. He saw a sword raised up toward him, but he leaned forward and thrust hard with the lance, driving it under the up-thrusting blade. He felt the shock in his arm and shoulder, as the sharp point penetrated the man’s body, then burst out through the man’s back. The weapon was wrenched from Sargon’s hand, burning the skin on his palm.
His horse had scarcely slowed, and in another stride Sargon felt the impact as a second invader staggered back, knocked to the ground by the charging beast’s shoulder. One of his horse’s hooves landed on the man’s chest, and even through the din, Sargon heard rib bones snapping like dry sticks under the horse’s weight.
Two more strides sent another man hurling to the ground, knocked off his feet and trampled underfoot. Then the horse stiffened its front legs, sliding forward into a knot of Carchemishi. Sargon glimpsed sword points and spear tips, all searching for his heart.
A sword swung at Sargon’s head. Clutching the horse’s mane with his left hand, Sargon threw himself off the animal’s back. The moment his feet touched down, he wrenched his sword from the scabbard and thrust back at his assailant, reaching over the back of the horse. The sword point struck the man’s face, ripping through cheekbone and snapping the head back with a gasp of pain.
Sargon’s horse tore itself free from its rider’s grasp and bolted, charging through the mass of invaders and opening a path. Sargon saw Garal fighting against two foes. Another man thrust a sword toward Sargon, but he twisted aside and leapt forward, moving toward his friend.
A long step and a full lunge brought him close enough to run the tip of his sword into the back of one of Garal’s attackers, just above his waist. Sargon, with a vicious twist of his wrist, jerked the blade free from the writhing man. Just in time, Sargon whirled to face the man who had swung at him only moments ago.
Sargon managed to deflect the blow. He ducked low under the cut and rammed his head and shoulder into the man’s chest.
The breath knocked from his body, his foe tried to grapple with his attacker. But Sargon could smell the fear that surrounded the man, reflected in his eyes. Shoving hard with his legs, Sargon pushed him backwards and brought his sword into play, thrusting low into his enemy’s stomach. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it took the fight out of the man long enough for Sargon to jerk the blade free and thrust again. For the second time in his life, hot blood spurted along his arm.
“Sargon!”
Garal’s voice spun Sargon around, ducking low as he turned. A sword cut through the space where he’d stood. Without thinking, Sargon continued to turn, and used his movement to swing his sword around in a flat arc. The sharp bronze bit deep into the enemy soldier’s forearm, almost cutting it in two.
With a shriek of agony, the man’s sword fell to the ground as a spray of blood spattered into the air. The wounded man staggered backwards, then tripped and fell.
Sargon spun around on his heel, wary of more attacks, but to his surprise, he found no one facing him. The last of the invaders had fallen back toward the ditch, fighting desperately against the battle-enraged warriors. On horse and on foot, the blood-mad Ur Nammu pressed their enemies, giving them no time to form a defensive line.
Panic and terror had swept through the enemy’s ranks, as they tried to withstand the vicious thrusts directed against them. Many sought a way to flee from the carnage, away from these ferocious barbarians who fought with such abandon.
Before the Carchemishi could regroup, a screaming mass of old men, women, and boys, anyone old enough or still strong enough to carry a weapon, came charging down the hill and joined the attack. The man Sargon had wounded, on his knees and clutching his arm, was thrown back by a lance driven into his chest by a woman, disheveled hair swirling around her head and screaming as loud as any man.
Glancing back up the slope, Sargon saw only an empty stretch of down-trodden grass, as the last of the Ur Nammu waded into the attack. With lances, bows, and swords, they finished off those who had survived the warriors’ charge.
Sargon, breathing heavily, let the sword’s point drop to the ground. The battle still raged around the plateau, but all the Carchemishi at the base of the hill were dead or dying.
Garal, with blood streaked across his face and chest, moved beside Sargon. “We need to find horses.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the battle noise.
Sargon saw plenty of animals milling about, others rearing up and lashing out with their forelegs at anything that moved, man or beast, friend or enemy. The animals, mad with fright and the scent of blood, all searched for a way to escape the carnage.
One look at the wild beasts, and Sargon decided he would wait a moment longer for them to calm down before he attempted to mount one. He glanced again at his friend. Sargon couldn’t tell if Garal were injured.
“Are you wounded?”
Garal shook his head. “No, but a horse’s hoof ripped across my chest.” The young warrior took a deep breath. “Let’s get some horses. This isn’t over yet.”
The young warrior dashed toward the ditch, where a handful of horses snapped and bit at each other, lashing out with their hooves at anything and everything that moved. By the time Sargon could join him, Garal had seized one halter rope, and somehow managed to grab the mane of a second animal. The man had an uncanny skill with horses.
“Mount up,” Garal shouted. “I can’t hold them much longer.”
Gritting his teeth, Sargon took two strides and leapt directly onto the back of the nearest animal, then locked his legs around the animal’s chest while he leaned forward and snatched up the dangling halter rope. To his surprise, the animal quieted down, grateful to have someone in control. Hearing more shouting, Sargon turned to his right, wheeling his new mount around.
From atop the horse, the chaos of the battlefield stunned Sargon’s eyes. Dead and dying animals and men covered the ground so densely that he doubted he could get a horse through it. Blood colored everything a bright red, some wounds still spurting into the air. The blood stink rasped into Sargon’s throat with every breath.
Any surviving Carchemishi had vanished, either driven off along the south side of the hill by the Alur Meriki, or pushed into the ditch and slaughtered by the Ur Nammu.
Thirty paces away, Sargon saw Subutai, still on his horse, blood streaming down his right arm. The clan leader surveyed the carnage. Then his horse rose up, front hooves flailing the air, as Subutai wheeled the animal around, searching the battleground. His eyes picked out Chinua. The subcommander and his men had just finished off a knot of Carchemishi.
“Chinua! Take your men. Capture their pack animals. Hurry.”
Garal also heard the command. He kicked his horse toward the spot where Chinua, waving his sword in the air, was regrouping his men. Swearing under his breath, Sargon followed after him, clutching his bloody sword in his hand.
Sargon had seen the invader’s baggage train yesterday, easily visible from the top of the plateau and about a mile away. Tents, wagons, and pack animals waited there, no doubt filled with all the loot taken in the last two hundred miles, plus whatever supplies of food and grain the invaders had collected along the way.
Sargon realized there would be no rest or time to think about the men he’d killed. In moments, Chinua was leading about forty riders at a full gallop across the plain, headed for the enemy baggage.
Many of Carchemishi survivors, fleeing for their lives, ran toward th
e same destination. Most had thrown away their weapons in their haste. Glancing over their shoulders as they ran, they looked in terror at the riders bearing down on them. The once haughty invaders, now stumbling and falling, parted like a river split in two by a pointed rock, trying to get out of the path of the relentless warriors.
Sargon, riding at Garal’s side, watched the slaughter. The Ur Nammu spread out and cut down the helpless men, swords rising and falling again and again. The warriors used their horses to advantage, and Sargon saw many Carchemishi knocked to the ground or trampled underfoot.
Once again Sargon glimpsed the looks of panic and fear on the enemy’s faces as the fast moving warriors cut them down from behind, using lance and bow and sword. Some warriors even dismounted, to kill those hugging the ground and pleading for their lives.
Dead bodies littered a wide swath of ground behind the ruthless warriors. Sargon knew there would be no mercy. The invaders would have slaughtered the entire Ur Nammu clan, after brutalizing the women and children. Now they would endure the same fate.
Looking ahead, Sargon glimpsed another stream of men and women abandoning the baggage train. A few rode, seizing any pack horse that might carry them away from the destruction of the army. Others just ran as hard as they could, scattering in all directions, away from the death that galloped toward them. Chinua’s riders, in hot pursuit, swept past the first of the wagons, tents, and rope corrals.
“Garal! Stop!” Sargon bellowed as loud as he could. He pulled back hard on the halter, letting the other warriors race past him. He had no interest in chasing across the plain after the fleeing survivors.
The baggage train, however, held food and supplies, as well as loot. When Chinua’s men returned from the killing, Sargon knew their first instinct would be to burn everything to the ground. Better that it be saved for use by the Ur Nammu and Alur Meriki.
With obvious reluctance, Garal slowed his horse, then swung it around and returned to where Sargon had dismounted, in front of the largest tent. Two big carts, small wagons, really, stood on both sides of the gently billowing cloth, pushed back and forth by the morning breeze. The tent was huge, easily twice the size of Subutai’s. The location, somewhat apart from the others, seemed too well placed for anyone less than the commander of the baggage train.
Sargon used his bloody sword to push aside the flap and peer within. He glimpsed blankets covering the floor, and cushions scattered about. Behind him Garal slid down from his horse. “What’s this place?”
“A commander’s quarters.” Ducking his head, Sargon started in.
Suddenly Garal’s arm snapped out and grabbed Sargon’s tunic, jerking him backwards. The blade of a sword missed Sargon’s face by a handbreadth. Sargon’s training took over. Before the weapon could strike again, Sargon thrust out his own sword. The blade dug into something, and he heard a yelp of pain from within.
Garal’s iron grip jerked Sargon aside, and the warrior moved forward, his sword at the ready. Tearing open the flap with his left hand, Garal lunged hard, but the blade met no resistance. Sargon saw a man stumbling away from the opening and toward the far side of the tent, a sword still clutched in his hand. Blood streamed down the man’s right forearm, where Sargon’s off-balance blade had landed.
Garal pushed his way inside, jerking his head from side to side, to make sure there were no other threats. Sargon followed his friend, sword at the ready. From the far corner of the tent, a woman screamed in fright at the sight of the two fighters, blood splattered over their bodies, naked blades in their hands. Another woman joined in, their high pitched screams even louder in the closed confines of the tent. Sargon had never heard two women make so much noise.
The wounded man, his back to the far wall of the tent, turned to face them. He knew he couldn’t cut through the wall of the tent before Sargon and Garal fell on him. Big and powerful, he would have had a chance against Garal in an even fight, but the deep cut on his arm had weakened him.
When the Carchemishi raised his weapon, the hilt slipped from his bloody hand. He muttered something Sargon didn’t understand, and fumbled with his left hand for a knife that dangled from his belt.
Garal took another step forward, to deliver the killing blow.
“Wait! Look at his tunic!” Sargon’s voice halted his friend’s thrust. “This one might be useful alive.”
The fine linen garment, stitched with threads that formed a wide hem on the square cut neck piece, looked far too valuable to belong to a common soldier. Now Sargon also noticed the wide leather belt with a thick bronze buckle. Designs had been tooled into the leather. Obviously a man of wealth and power.
Garal grunted. He made a sudden lunge toward the man, who threw up his hands to try and block the killing stroke. Instead, Garal shifted his body and his sword in the same motion, and rammed the pommel of the weapon into the wounded man’s face.
The powerful blow sent the Carchemishi reeling backward into the wall of the tent, which billowed and flapped, threatening to collapse the whole structure. Dazed, the man slumped to the ground, fresh blood dripping from the gash in his forehead. A single glance told Sargon that the fight had gone out of their prisoner.
He turned his attention to the two women. Young girls, really. Neither one looked any older than Tashanella. The screams had stopped, and now they clutched each other, bosoms rising and falling from their fear. They knew what fate awaited them.
“Tie that one up,” Sargon ordered, gesturing toward the unconscious man on the ground, “before he comes to. We don’t want him killing himself.”
Sargon gave the order without thinking, though of course in the hierarchy of the Ur Nammu, he wasn’t supposed to give orders to anyone.
If Garal noticed the breech of command, he ignored it. Glancing around, Garal spied the dangling rope used to fasten the tent flap. Using his sword, he cut it free. Then he dropped to his knees, rolled the semi-conscious man onto his stomach, and bound his hands behind him, tugging hard on the rope to make sure the knot stayed tight.
The tent and its inhabitants intrigued Sargon. Not a mere commander’s quarters, not with furnishings as large and luxurious as these. He realized the prisoner must be one of the Carchemishi leaders. That would make more sense, with the tent located on the fringe of the baggage train.
This tent looked more like a bed chamber, with cushions and rugs scattered about everywhere. The scent of incense hung in the air, still noticeable even over the stink of fresh blood and sweat. It might be a place where a senior commander, after a hard day of pillaging, took his pleasures.
The trembling girls, still sobbing, needed to be questioned. They would hold many answers, and it should be easy enough to get them to talk.
“Garal, these three are important. Can you guard them until Chinua or Subutai can get here? I’ll make sure that the rest of the tents aren’t destroyed until we’ve examined them. They might tell us much about these invaders and their plans.”
The warrior had finished binding their captive. “Go. I’ll watch them.”
Sargon faced the girls once again. “Stay there and don’t move. Otherwise I’ll turn the both of you over to the warriors. You know what that means.”
He spoke in the language of Akkad, hoping the two would understand. Whether they did or not, their heads nodded in unison, and the sobs ceased.
Outside, Sargon started checking the tents and wagons, jogging from one to another.
Four tents clustered together stood nearby, and he searched those first. Each provided sleeping space large enough for three or four men. They held little more than the loot and goods a subcommander might have accumulated, and nothing that Sargon found interesting.
He started on the wagons, a motley collection of every size and shape imaginable. Sargon strode up and down the lines, glancing at each as he passed. When he completed his inspection, he’d counted forty-six wagons, an impressive number.
Most contained sacks of grain and vegetables, weapons, and supplies needed
for such a large number of men on campaign. A small group of ten wagons, separated from the others, held the army’s loot – gold, gems, fancy weapons, even richly made clothing, rugs, and sandals.
Finished, Sargon ran back to the commander’s tent. Garal had dragged his prisoner outside, the better to see what was going on. Now the warrior sat on a low stool, drinking something from a water skin. As Sargon dismounted, he caught the smell of wine in the air.
Garal grinned at him. “Have some of this. It’s good.” He offered up the wineskin.
Sargon’s throat was dry, but he wanted water, not wine. “Any water inside?”
“Yes, plenty.” Garal shouted something, and one of the girls appeared at the tent’s opening. “Water.” He pointed to Sargon.
The girl nodded, and disappeared. In a moment, she returned carrying a water skin so heavy she could barely manage it.
Garal laughed. “She already knows two Ur Nammu words – water, and wine. Tonight I’ll teach her a few more.”
Sargon snatched the water skin from her hands and drank until he could hold no more. When he handed it back, it weighed considerably less. Looking down at his hands, he realized they were still covered with blood.
The girl offered it to Garal, but he shook his head. “What’s in the wagons?” He took another mouthful of wine.
“Food and supplies, mostly,” Sargon said. “Ten are filled with gold and loot the Carchemishi have collected. No horses. The wagon drivers must have cut the livery animals free and rode off.”
“That’s probably what happened to this one.” Garal shoved the unconscious man with his foot. “Probably went inside to collect his loot, and someone stole his horse.” He laughed at the idea. “Well, we can use all the food we can get. We lost most of our herds.”
The Ur Nammu had abandoned everything in their flight, including their sheep, goats, and cattle. The supplies in the enemy wagons would sustain the Ur Nammu for a long time, more than long enough to return to their former camp.
The sound of hoof beats made Sargon look up. Riders approached, coming toward them. Garal plugged the wineskin and tossed it back into the tent. He moved to his feet and stood beside his friend. Four riders led the way, and behind them were two separate groups of twenty or so warriors.