by Sam Barone
Eskkar & Bracca – Rogue Warriors 1
by
Sam Barone
Also by Sam Barone
Dawn of Empire
Empire Rising
Quest For Honour
(Published outside the United States as
Conflict of Empires)
Eskkar & Trella – The Beginning
Battle For Empire
Coming Soon – Summer 2013
Clash of Empires
Iltani
Summer of 3161 BC, the Land Between the Rivers . . .
Eskkar stared at the hunk of stale bread resting on the tavern’s grimy table and tried to ignore the ongoing argument with the innkeeper. Bracca, Eskkar’s companion, still traded words with the owner, complaining about the day-old bread and the half-filled cups. By now both men had raised their voices, each attempting to shout down the other. Bracca repeated his demands for more food and drink, while the innkeeper refused to offer any more without another coin.
Eskkar gritted his teeth. The innkeeper’s hand rested on the sagging plank table that separated them, ready to grasp the handy cudgel and splatter Bracca’s brains across the room. Of course Bracca would have his sword in the man’s chest before that happened, but the fight wouldn’t stop there. The handful of patrons enjoying the shouting match would join the fray, and Eskkar would have to do the same.
Another senseless fight, and even if no one got killed, the inevitable outcome would be more trouble for Eskkar and Bracca. But Bracca relished tavern brawls almost as much as he liked trading sharp words with angry innkeepers. Eskkar, on the other hand, hated the thought of dying in some dank village hut, a gloomy fate that seemed more likely with every passing day.
Of course the man had cheated them, taking their last copper coin and promising a cup of fine ale and half a loaf of bread for each of them. The ale, so watered down as to be little more than brown water, had vanished down Eskkar’s throat in three unsatisfying gulps. The bread, yesterday’s from the hard feel of the brown crust, lacked any taste whatsoever. Eskkar knew he would end his meal as hungry as when he sat down.
But every tavern owner in the Land Between the Rivers cheated his customers, especially strangers just passing through. Only a fool expected anything different, which made Bracca’s quarrel an even greater waste of time. Not to mention that Eskkar, a barbarian outcast from the north, and Bracca, a Sumerian thief from the south, were considered worse than mere travelers and should expect to be treated accordingly.
Picking up his bread, Eskkar rose, making enough noise so as to draw every eye to his tall frame covered with hard muscle. A long horse sword jutted up over his right shoulder. “Let’s finish our meal outside.”
The brief words, spoken with the heavy accent of someone from the steppes, stopped not only the innkeeper’s tirade, but also dissuaded the regular customers from joining the argument. Eskkar, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling, strode between them without a glance and stepped outside into the bright sunlight.
Squinting his eyes, Eskkar found a rickety table alongside the tavern’s outer wall a few steps from the entrance. Ignoring the bird droppings, he eased himself onto the hard bench. A moment later Bracca emerged, a frown on his face, and slumped onto the bench opposite Eskkar.
“Bastard should have given us at least another cup of ale.”
Eskkar shrugged. “It’s only water, so why fight over it?”
Bracca snorted. “I don’t like being cheated, especially by some farm hand.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose you’re right. Maybe we should come back at night, cut his throat, and take whatever coins he’s got buried under his bed.”
Villagers always buried their valuables underneath their beds, as if no robber would ever think of looking there. A few of the more enlightened hid their goods in the garden, which usually required a little longer to find. Bracca swore he could smell the hiding places, and for all Eskkar knew, he really could.
“If that fat fool had anything of value or even some decent food, I’d do it. But we don’t need another gang of angry farmers chasing us across the countryside.”
For once, Bracca had nothing to say. In the last ten days, they’d left a trail of irate farmers behind them. Eskkar took advantage of the precious moment of silence to take another bite from his bread.
“Why is that man staring at you?”
Eskkar lifted his gaze from the dirty table. Bracca’s soft voice now held just the hint of concern that made it different from the steady stream of words he incessantly bantered about. For the sake of his ears, Eskkar tended to ignore most of Bracca’s never ending comments. But while his friend might talk too much, Bracca knew when to keep quiet. And when to make his words count.
Without moving his head, Eskkar took a quick glance at the idlers hanging about the village center – this pathetic collection of mud huts didn’t rate calling it a marketplace. He needed only a moment to pick out the young man squatting on the far side of the open space who had caught Bracca’s attention.
The man indeed continued to stare, not with the usual open-mouth, I’ve-never-seen-a- barbarian-before, but with closed lips and furrowed brow. Nor did he turn away when Eskkar glanced in his direction. That warranted a longer look. Most people lowered their eyes when Eskkar glared at them.
Over the years, Eskkar had learned to ignore the sneers or rude looks that followed him everywhere. Well into his twenty-sixth season, his powerful bulk and features proclaimed his steppes ancestry to everyone he encountered. Taller than almost all villagers, his unkempt, dark brown hair and scarred face tended to frighten most people. The long sword he carried slung across his back made them even more nervous.
He brushed the hair away from his face, and took in the man, clearly a farmer by the dirt and caked clay that clung to his feet and legs. Only long days laboring in the muck of the fields or the mud of an irrigation ditch stained a man like that.
“Don’t know him.” Eskkar shrugged and turned his attention back to the last scrap of bread that rested on the table. The stale loaf had cost them their last copper coin, and he didn’t intend to waste even the tiniest crumb. “Just some dirt eater.”
The barbarian warriors of the steppes called anyone who lived off the land, whether on farm or village, dirt eaters. The horse fighters killed them at every occasion. A blade or arrow in the stomach let them die a lingering and painful death. The lowest herd animal butchered for food or pleasure fared better.
“Well, I think he knows you,” Bracca said. He shifted his stool, and now faced slightly away from the stranger. “That’s more than just simple curiosity. Have you killed any of his friends or relatives?”
“No, and I haven’t fucked his wife or sister either.” Eskkar swallowed the last hard crust of bread, and licked his lips, wishing there were more. “I’ll go ask him.”
But the farmer must have decided he’d seen enough. When Eskkar turned his eyes back across the open space, the man had vanished.
“Well, he’s gone.”
“And so should we be on our way,” Bracca said. “There’s a gang of armed men coming toward the inn.”
Eskkar glanced over his shoulder. A quick count showed seven men, all carrying weapons, heading toward them. Armed men meant trouble. Villagers seldom carried weapons. Most relied on a simple knife, a dull working tool usually made of low quality copper. But those approaching carried a mix of short swords and longer knives, the kind favored by fighting men.
Eskkar shifted his weight, and moved his feet. Bracca had already done the same, though he still appeared to be taking his ease.
The leader of the little troop, a burly man with a pointed beard barely into his thirties, halted
a few steps away from Eskkar and his friend.
“What’s your business here?” The man wasted no time on pleasantries. His beard jutted up and down as he spoke, which made his question seem even more menacing. “Were you planning to work for Ulman?”
Bracca shifted again, to face his questioner, and summoned his most cheerful face. “Not that it matters, Master, but who is Ulman? As for my friend and I, we’re just passing through, heading north.”
Eskkar said nothing, just turned slightly as well. He relied on Bracca’s smooth tongue to handle any villager’s questions. However both men, without revealing any preparation, were ready to fight. Most people tended to discount Bracca’s small stature, and they assumed that Eskkar’s bulk slowed him down. Those assumptions had proven fatal more than once, as the two companions were quick on their feet and deadly with their weapons.
“Ulman was a farmer and a troublemaker. He had a farmstead just north of the village. Ulman wanted to take the land of others, and tried to hire outsiders to fight for him. Two days ago, we killed him for it. So my master, Katha, wants no more strangers in Norvel.”
Another village feud, Eskkar decided. Petty farmers squabbling over some insignificant scrap of dirt as if it were a gold mine. Norvel must be the name of this particular collection of crumbling huts and its surrounding farmholds.
“Well, then, you’ve no quarrel with us.” Bracca’s wide smile and light tone should have put the man at ease. “We’re just heading north, until we can cross the Euphrates.”
The soft words didn’t mollify Katha’s steward. “Then get on your way, and don’t stop until you’re across the river. If I see you hanging around, I’ll kill you both.”
Bracca’s smile never wavered. “No need to worry, Master. We were just leaving. But if I may ask, what is your name?”
“My name is Takcanar, and I’m Katha’s Chief Steward.” He turned his gaze toward Eskkar. “Is your friend a barbarian?”
“Alas, yes,” Bracca said. “A miserable outcast from his clan, so he’s no threat to anyone. I hired him to accompany me. His ugly face helps keep away the thieves.”
“We don’t like barbarians.” Takcanar leaned over and spat on the ground, the spittle just missing Eskkar’s sandal. “Some clan passed through here last year, burned the crops and a lot of farms.”
“Well, last year we were far to the south,” Bracca said. “So we . . .”
“Get out of the village. Now! Or I’ll have my men cut you down.”
As ever, Bracca’s conciliatory tongue had put the men at ease, even as it increased their confidence. Taking their courage from their leader’s truculent manner, they were ready to attack.
Lifting his head and fixing his gaze on Takcanar, Eskkar stood, taking his time, and letting his size and bulk put the first doubt into Takcanar and his men.
“We’re leaving,” Eskkar said. “Unless you want to try and stop us?” He hooked his left thumb on the sling of his scabbard. That would make it easier and faster to draw the long sword that jutted up over his right shoulder.
Takcanar took a half step backward, his hand moving toward the hilt of his sword. By then Bracca was on his feet. Suddenly the two men, with their backs protected by the wall of the inn, had turned from helpless strangers into potentially dangerous fighters.
Eskkar watched the smiles fade from Takcanar and his followers. They, too, had realized that their usual intimidation tactics, ones that worked well on outnumbered and untrained farmers, might not prove effective against armed men who made fighting their trade.
“Be on your way, then,” Takcanar snapped. But he moved aside, and his men did the same, without waiting for orders.
With two quick steps, Bracca glided past the closest of the men. Eskkar followed more slowly, his eyes never leaving Takcanar’s face. In moments, they were out of any immediate danger, and in a few steps more, they moved past the outskirts of the village.
“Well, as long as they don’t have any bows, we shouldn’t have any problems,” Bracca said.
“They must have a few in the village.” Both men strode at a rapid pace, Eskkar’s long legs covering the ground with ease. “Better we keep going before they decide to try and use them.”
“Takcanar is the only one who looked like a fighter. The rest are just slow-witted farmers.”
“Fighters or farmers, we don’t need any more trouble,” Eskkar said.
“Agreed.” Bracca quickened his pace. “The sooner we get across the river, the better.”
The two men were headed for a large village on the west bank of the Euphrates. Bracca claimed to have friends there, and since their destination lay close to the wilder northern lands, horses might be easier to find. Thieves had stolen their own mounts almost twenty days ago, forcing the two companions to change their plans and journey to the north – on foot and with only a handful of copper coins.
With luck, they might find employment, and after a few months, earn enough to buy fresh horses. Or more likely, given their aversion to hard labor, find some animals they could steal.
The village of Norvel soon disappeared behind some low hills, and Eskkar eased his pace. He didn’t think Takcanar would bother to come after them. Even if he did, Takcanar would need time to collect bows and weapons. With no horses in the village, the two companions would be difficult to catch, and Eskkar hadn’t seen even a single pony or draft animal in any of the farms they’d passed.
In fact, they hadn’t seen a horse of any kind in the last ten days. The whole countryside seemed empty of horses. Eskkar guessed the barbarian incursion last year had picked clean any decent horseflesh. In their raid last year, the steppes riders would have killed any animals not worth stealing – just one more way of wreaking havoc on dirt eaters.
The two men had covered almost a mile before Bracca slowed and halted. “There’s a man following us.”
Eskkar, who had kept his eyes looking ahead, stopped, turned around, took a quick look, and swore.
“You’re sure you don’t know his wife? His mother, perhaps?” Bracca’s joke sounded even less humorous than it had in the village.
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Eskkar watched the farmer approach, not from the trail directly behind them, but angling down from the low hills that bordered the village. The man alternated between running and a fast walk, so he’d clearly taken the long way to catch up with them. For some reason, he, too, hadn’t wanted to encounter Takcanar and his bullies.
Bracca found a large rock nearby and sat down. Eskkar, annoyed at the dirt eater’s persistence, remained standing. It didn’t take long. The man, breathing hard, covered the last hundred paces at a fast walk.
“Why are you following us?” Eskkar spoke first, before the man had closed within twenty paces.
The farmer stopped only a long stride away. “My name is Zuma. Do you remember me?”
Bracca’s soft chuckle did nothing to sooth Eskkar’s bad-tempered mood. “I’ve never seen you before.”
Zuma refused to be intimidated. “Your name is Eskkar, isn’t it?”
Eskkar hadn’t told anyone in the village his name, and neither had Bracca. Since both of them had many enemies, they rarely used any names, let alone their real ones, in the presence of strangers.
“My name is none of your business.”
“You are Eskkar. I was only a boy, but I remember. You brought Iltani to our farm. My father fed you and gave you a place to stay.”
The name of Iltani brought back a rush of memories. The sick girl Eskkar had saved from the bandits, the one who tossed him a sword just in time to save his life. After the fight, Eskkar had ridden for over a day, holding a weak and recovering Iltani in his arms, until they reached the farm of her kin.
“I knew there was a woman involved.” Bracca’s laughter only increased Eskkar’s foul mood.
Almost eleven years had passed since the fight at the pox-ridden farm house, the first real fight of Eskkar’s young life. He still hadn’t reached his seventeent
h season when he killed the bandits raiding Iltani’s farm. So he had, indeed, passed through these lands once before. Iltani’s uncle, Eskkar remembered, had possessed a large family. And they had fed and sheltered him for a few days, though they urged him to move on as soon as he could. Outcast barbarians, even young ones, made everyone uncomfortable.
“And what is that to you?”
“Not long after you left, my oldest brother, Ulman, took Iltani for his wife. Two days ago, Takcanar’s men killed him, and my younger brother. They would have killed me, too, but I was out in the fields.”
“What has this to do with me?”
“I came to the village to seek help,” Zuma said. “But all those who opposed Katha and his hired killers had fled. Those that remain are too afraid even to speak to me, let alone to resist. If you cannot help us, tomorrow Katha and his sons, along with Takcanar and his men, will return to our farm. If any of us are still there, they will kill us. But if we leave, we will starve to death. Iltani and her children will all die. None of our neighbors will dare to take us in, give us work, or even feed us.”
So now there were children involved. Eskkar ground his teeth. None of this affair concerned him, and a few more dirt eaters, alive or dead, meant nothing to him. Nor had he ever shared the pleasures of the gods with Iltani. She’d still been weak from her battle with the pox when he brought her to her kinfolk. He’d wanted to spend time with her, but her grim-faced uncle and his women knew better than to let her get involved with a barbarian.
No, nothing from the past bound him to help her now, nothing except – the sword she had tossed to him. Without that old copper blade, he might have been slain in his first battle. He stared at Zuma.
“Where is your farm?” With luck, the farm would be in the opposite direction, and Eskkar would have an excuse to ignore Zuma’s pleas.
The man couldn’t keep the hope and excitement from his voice. “It’s north of here, the same direction you are going. We can be there well before dark, if we hurry.”