by Sam Barone
The women’s shrill cries turned his head back to the countryside, to see the women fleeing toward the gate. It took a moment before he spotted the band of horsemen. The bandits were approaching more from the south than from the east, where Eskkar had anticipated they would appear.
He watched them ride toward the village at an easy canter, cutting across the fields and angling toward the path that led to the village.
They would reach the trail in a few moments, and then there would be only the last five hundred paces to the village entrance. They rode in barbarian fashion, shouting their war cries as they galloped, intending to frighten and panic the villagers as much as possible. Eskkar stayed immobile only long enough to get an accurate count of the riders.
“Damn the gods! I count eighteen of them. Good hunting, Mitrac.”
Without rising, Eskkar slipped back down the ladder and raced to the main entrance. His ten men were going to be outnumbered. Today he would need all the luck the unpredictable gods could dispense. Eskkar reached the gate as the last of the women, breathing hard, stumbled back into the village.
Then Nisaba walked through, still wiping her hands on her dress. She nodded at him as she passed by, letting him know that all the women had returned. Eskkar took up a bow and nodded to the two soldiers on the other side of the gate. One of them had a bow in his hands, an arrow already fitted to the string, while the other man leaned against a low cart, the sort farmers used to display fruits and vegetables in the market. Eskkar knelt down behind a similar cart, his shoulder against the rough stakes of the palisade, and peered through a crack between the logs. He ducked back his head and fitted an arrow to his string. The bandits were only moments away. The rush of battle tingled his nerves, and he felt his heart racing, the way it always did before a fight.
Shrilling a war cry, the first rider burst through the gate at a canter, a sword swinging easily in his hand. Eskkar stayed down, counting the horses as they crossed into the village. Riders eased back their winded mounts, slowing as they entered Dilgarth. They didn’t expect any resistance, and the women’s panicky cries had already faded. Straggling behind, the last horse finally passed through the opening at barely a trot, its rider apparently more concerned with the animal’s halter than his surroundings.
As soon as the last rider moved past the gate, Eskkar rose up and drew his bow. At the same moment he let fly the arrow at the man’s back, a great shout came from the rear of the village, followed by the screams of frightened and wounded horses. Eskkar’s target was less than twenty paces away, but the man’s horse jumped at the noise, making for a poor shot that struck the rider low in the back instead of squarely between the shoulders.
Nevertheless, at that range the shaft landed with enough force to knock the bandit off his horse.
The moment he loosed the missile, Eskkar turned and, keeping the bow in his left hand, pushed hard against the heavy cart that had concealed him, and shoved it with all his might into the space between the palisade.
From the other side of the opening, the second cart bumped up against his own, blocking easy exit from the village.
Two waist-high carts didn’t form much of a barricade. A really good horse and rider might even jump the obstacle, but Eskkar was determined to give no bandit an opportunity to test his horsemanship.
By the time Eskkar had strung another arrow to his bow, the second archer had fired four times at the distant horsemen, fitting and loosing shafts with a speed Eskkar couldn’t hope to match. But hitting a moving, twisting target was another matter. Dust swirled everywhere, rising high into the lane. At the rear of the village, the surprised bandits had encountered Hamati and six of his men as they entered the square. The soldiers would continue pouring arrows into their confused targets as fast as they could.
Eskkar knew the bandit leader would have only a moment to make his decision. If he dismounted and urged his men forward, to attack Hamati’s archers, things would get very bloody. But mounted warriors rarely wanted to fight on foot, and attacking an unknown number of men standing behind a barricade of carts and tables wouldn’t be too appealing.
A mass of panicked horses broke out of the dust and surged back toward the gate. From the hoofbeats, Eskkar knew the bandit leader had decided to run, not fight. Eskkar picked the man out, hanging low over his animal’s neck, shouting to his men, and urging his beast back toward the village entrance.
Mitrac, standing exposed on the edge of the roof, wreaked havoc with nearly each shaft he loosed. Only three riders remained on their horses as they charged back toward the main gate. Ignoring the other two, Eskkar aimed at the leader and fired his arrow into the man’s horse, an easy target even Eskkar couldn’t miss at such close range. The animal screamed and twisted in its tracks before stumbling to a halt, and its rider, clinging to the wounded beast’s neck, couldn’t hold on and tumbled to the ground. A second bandit went down, but the last rider put his horse directly at the carts, and the animal leaped high into the air. Horse and rider cleared the carts and landed cleanly outside the fence. Then one of Mitrac’s heavy arrows struck the man high in the shoulder, and the bandit pitched from his mount at the same moment the animal landed.
“Stop that man,” Eskkar shouted. “Don’t let him get away.” Eskkar slid his own sword from its sheath. The bandit leader had fallen hard, but already he’d climbed to his feet, sword in his hand, and started racing toward the gate. The riderless horses all turned back at the sight of the carts, the dumb beasts racing back the way they’d come. For the moment, the area in front of the gate stood empty. Eying the horse wandering a few paces outside the gate, the bandit leader made a dash for the opening.
Eskkar blocked the way. “Put down your sword!”
The bandit chief showed himself a true warrior, and flung himself at Eskkar with all the speed and force he could muster, his sword striking at Eskkar’s head. Trapped, the man knew there might still be a chance to escape, if he could get outside the village.
Eskkar’s sword, made from the finest bronze, flashed up to parry the blow, and the loud clank as the two blades clashed carried over the other battle noises. In the same instant, before the man could recover, Eskkar lowered his shoulder and thrust himself into the bandit leader’s chest.
The two men met with a crash. The bandit, moving at a run, had momentum behind him, but Eskkar was the bigger man, and he put the force of his body behind his shoulder. Gasping as the air was knocked from his lungs, the bandit went down, and before he could get up, one of the soldiers from the gate leapt upon him, pinning his sword arm until Eskkar could stomp his sandal on the blade just past the hilt. The man let go of the useless weapon and grabbed for a knife at his belt, but Eskkar pushed the point of his sword against the man’s neck. He stopped moving, though his eyes darted from Eskkar to the sword.
Before the prisoner could change his mind, Eskkar’s soldier ripped the prisoner’s knife from his belt, then used its hilt to strike the man hard across his forehead. That stunned the bandit for a few moments, and before he could begin to resist, the soldier cut free the man’s sandal straps, rolled the prisoner onto his stomach, and started binding the prisoner’s wrists behind him. Eskkar kept the sword against the bandit’s neck until the man’s hands were bound.
“Captain! Over here.”
Eskkar turned to see the other soldier who’d helped defend the gate.
He’d scrambled over the carts and had the wounded bandit on his feet, the arrow still protruding from the man’s shoulder. That prisoner grimaced in pain either from the arrow or from the fact that the guard had twisted his other arm up behind his back and had a knife at the man’s neck.
Eskkar shoved one of the carts out of the way so that the two could enter.
Hamati arrived, bow in hand with an arrow to the string, his step as assured as if he strode on Akkad’s training ground. He had a big grin on his broad face.
“I saw him take that cut at you, Captain,” he said. “Not many men could have parried t
hat blow.”
Eskkar glanced down at the weapon still in his hand, then raised it up to Hamati. A tiny gouge in the metal showed where the two blades had met, but nothing of consequence, though Eskkar knew that a common sword might have shattered under the impact of such a ferocious blow.
“Trella’s gift keeps me safe.” The great sword, painstakingly cast from the strongest bronze by the best craftsmen in Akkad, had taken months to forge. Trella had ordered it cast especially for him, and it had saved his life once before.
“How did it go, Hamati?” Eskkar asked.
“As we expected. As soon as they rode into the marketplace, we put seven arrows into the horses. That put them in a panic. The poor beasts started rearing and twisting, and two men were pitched right off their mounts. My men just kept shooting. Each of us got off at least five arrows. That took the fight out of them.”
Eskkar wasn’t particularly adept at counting, but some numbers came to him more easily than others. Horses, men, arrows, these kinds of things he could count quickly enough. Thirty-five arrows from Hamati and his six men, in about twelve or fifteen seconds. In those same fifteen seconds, Mitrac, standing on the rooftop, had fired at least seven shafts, since he was much faster than the others. Nearly forty-five arrows loosed into a crowd of sixteen or so bandits, since a few hadn’t made it all the way into the square before the ambush started.
“Did we lose anyone?”
Hamati grunted in disgust. “One of the bandits finally got an arrow fitted to his bow and Markas took a shaft in his arm. But it was poorly drawn. It didn’t even go through. The women are tending to him. He’ll be fine in a few days.”
Fitting an arrow to a bow, while trying to control a panicky horse at the same time, sometimes meant you couldn’t pull the shaft as far back as you wanted. With the smaller bows the horsemen used, that could result in a weakly launched shaft. The bows Eskkar’s men used were much larger, more powerful weapons, shooting a heavier arrow, and were as useful for hunting game as men. Their weakness was that they were too big to be used from horseback. That disadvantage didn’t trouble Eskkar, since he didn’t have many horses, nor men who knew how to fight from them.
The bandit leader on the ground groaned, and Hamati kicked him casually in the ribs, but not hard enough to break anything. “Captain, except for one bandit at the square who was knocked senseless when his horse was killed, these two are the only ones left alive. All the rest back there are dead or dying.”
The other prisoner was shoved to the ground, alongside the man Eskkar had fought. The wounded man gasped in pain at the impact. The shank of the arrow, still protruding from his back, had brushed against the ground, twisting the shaft inside his shoulder and no doubt sending a wave of pain through the man.
“Better pull that out of him,” Eskkar ordered, looking at the wound.
Mitrac’s arrow had struck the man’s right shoulder, but looked low and deep enough to be fatal. The man would likely die, but might live long enough to answer some questions.
“Bring them both back to the square, and we’ll see what we can get out of them.” Eskkar glanced up at the sun and realized it had scarcely moved.
The whole fight had lasted only moments.
Hamati, meanwhile, stepped over to the injured prisoner. Before he realized what was coming, Hamati gripped the shaft and ripped it from the man’s shoulder. A piercing scream erupted from the wounded man; then he fainted from the pain and shock.
Eskkar returned to the square. He counted nine carcasses, several with multiple arrows protruding from breast and neck. The rest of the animals, some of them wounded, their eyes still wide with fear and nervous from the smell of blood, had been rounded up and pushed into the same rope corral that had contained the soldiers’ animals last night. The stink of blood, urine, and feces rose up from both man and beast. Eskkar didn’t mind the familiar smell. He knew you had to be alive to notice it.
A horseman since he’d grown old enough to sit astride one, Eskkar hated the thought of killing such fine horseflesh. But despite the familiar pang of sorrow at their deaths, he knew that, in battle, you did what you had to do. The men remembered their training, to shoot first at the horse.
When you shoot the horse, even if it’s only wounded, the animal panics and the rider can’t control it. When the horse goes down, the rider is usually stunned or injured from the fall. First you stop the charge, then you kill the dismounted riders. Hamati’s veterans had all fought in the siege of Akkad and they had learned that lesson very well indeed. Tonight, there would be plenty of fresh meat for everyone, and Eskkar had gained himself another eight or nine riding stock animals for his men.
The other sight wasn’t as pleasant. A woman, blood spattered all over her face and arms, sobbed as she knelt against the side of the elder’s house.
Nisaba and another woman attended her, their arms around her, trying to give comfort. The bandit captured in the square lay dead, his throat slit by the still-shaking woman. She had waited until Hamati’s men had bound the prisoner and gone off to chase after the loose horses.
Blood still dripped from the man’s eyes and nose, as well as from his neck and chest. Eskkar guessed she stabbed the helpless man a dozen times before someone pulled her off him. The victim must have done some injury either to her or to her kin. Eskkar couldn’t do anything about it now.
He turned to Hamati, but the soldier, after shaking his head in disgust at his men’s carelessness, had already given orders to guard the two remaining prisoners.
Eskkar went to the well and brought up a fresh bucket of water, drinking his fill and dumping the rest across his face. Once again, he was surprised at how thirsty he became after a fight, even one as brief as this. That was the way of most battles, he decided—a sudden, brief burst of activity with no time for thought or fear.
Then he recalled the long battles for Akkad’s walls. Those fights had seemed endless, and every man had been completely exhausted when they ended. He remembered men on their knees, trying to catch their breath, some with tears running down their faces, suddenly unable to control their emotions or even to raise their arms. Eskkar shook off the gloomy vision, refilled the bucket, and drank again. His thirst satisfied, he went back inside the house, picked up the same stool he had used last night, and brought it back outside.
He sat down under a small tree barely large enough to provide a bit of shade. Hamati’s men dragged the two prisoners in front of Eskkar. Both of them were bleeding and covered with dust. They were forced to their knees, the hot sun directly in their faces. No doubt they were even more thirsty than Eskkar. They had ridden a wide circle to return to Dilgarth, where they found death waiting for them instead of food and water.
“What are your names?” Eskkar asked sharply.
The wounded man answered immediately. “I am called Utu, noble.”
His voice cracked as he spoke, and he swayed a little from side to side.
Loss of blood had drained the color from his face. “Water, noble, can I have . . .”
“Keep silent, you dog of a coward!” His leader spat the words at him, though his own voice croaked harshly as well. Before anyone could stop him, the bandit leader threw his shoulder against Utu’s body, knocking him into the dirt and wrenching another long moan of pain from the wounded man who lay twitching in the dust.
This time Hamati kicked the leader with force, using the heel of his sandal. Once. Twice. And a third time, until the man let out a moan through clenched teeth.
“Bring Utu into the house, Hamati, and give him some water. Go easy with him. Keep the other here, and keep him quiet! ” Eskkar stood, picked up the stool, and carried it back into the house.
Inside, the mud walls and roof provided some shelter from the heat of the day. Eskkar sat down again while Hamati and one of his men carried Utu inside, then held a ladle of water to his lips. Eskkar studied the man while he drank. His face had turned as white as unleavened bread, and his wound still bled, though not as rap
idly as before. The man had lost much blood, and Eskkar guessed he didn’t have long to live. Utu finished the water and asked for more. Eskkar nodded, then waited while the wounded man emptied a second ladle.
“Utu, you’re in pain, and you’ll probably be dead within the hour. I want you to tell me about your leader and what you’ve been doing for the last few weeks. If you do, you can have plenty of wine and water to comfort yourself. If not, you will be put to the torture. I can even hand you over to the women outside and let them toy with you. They won’t be in such a rush this time.”
A sob came from the man, and tears ran from his eyes. “Then I’m to die?” He whispered the words in a trembling voice.
“You are dying, Utu. The arrow struck deep and hard. Nothing can save you, not even the gods. Only how you die is left for you to choose.”
Eskkar spoke with the certainty of one who had seen many die before.
Then he waited, saying nothing. The dying man needed some time to grasp his plight.
It took Utu only moments to decide. “Wine, noble! For the pain.”
“Untie his hands and put something under his head,” Eskkar ordered.
He had done this many times before. Tell them the truth, that they were dying or would be put to death. It didn’t matter which. In that state of mind, most wounded men would appreciate every comfort. Hamati untied the man, then eased him down on the dirt floor, with his head elevated by a folded blanket. Hamati brought over the last of the soldier’s wine and held the wineskin to Utu’s lips, letting the man drink until he coughed and spat up some of the harsh liquid.
“Now tell me, Utu,” Eskkar asked, “what is the name of your leader, and how many others have been raiding the lands?”