by Sam Barone
The men took turns with the shovel. Mitrac didn’t want any of them getting their hands blistered and impairing their archery. After Eskkar and the commanders had worked out the plan, Mitrac had picked his own men. He’d selected those who could draw and loose a shaft as fast as humanly possible.
Soon they were all sweating with the effort of digging. At least they’d gotten some rest waiting for dawn to arrive. Mitrac took his turn, like any of the men. They passed the shovel from man to man, while others dug with sticks or anything else they could lay their hands on. Soon the ground beside the hill was pock-marked with dozens of irregular holes scattered about. His men had just a few more paces of open ground to dig when one of the guards gave a shout.
“Riders coming!”
Everyone scrambled back up the hill, gathered their bows, and strung them. The quivers had already been laid out, so that the shafts would draw easily. By now Mitrac could feel the earth shaking as the horsemen appeared at the far end of the valley. As soon as the riders saw the hill, they halted. A few moments later, one of them waved his arms.
“It’s Hathor!” Mitrac shouted. He gestured them to ride in. “Guide them past.”
Hathor’s tall and lean figure was almost as recognizable at a distance as Eskkar’s. The Egyptian and his men cantered toward Mitrac’s position, stopping when they reached the base of the hill. Mitrac and his men formed a line that forced Hathor to funnel his men close to the valley wall, in order to avoid the holes.
Hathor waited until his men had passed through. “They won’t be far behind me, Mitrac.”
“We’ve just another dozen holes to dig, and we’ll be ready.”
“If we get a chance, I’ll send men back to guide you in.”
Not likely, Mitrac thought. He’d recognized the same look in Eskkar’s eyes. Both men thought there was a good chance Mitrac and his men would all be dead by noon. “Good hunting, Hathor.”
The Egyptian nodded respectfully, then kicked his horse and galloped off, riding hard to catch up with his men. Mitrac knew that the Akkadian horsemen had as dangerous an assignment as his own. They needed to ride south at top speed, to link up with Eskkar’s archers at the Sumerian camp. Hathor’s warriors would be the final blow on the Sumerians, the stroke that Eskkar hoped would finish them as a fighting force. With luck, they might even get ahead of the Sumerians. Otherwise, they would follow their trail and try to hunt them down. Hathor would be facing plenty of danger of his own today. If anything went wrong, they’d be caught on tired horses in open ground.
The archers completed digging the last of the holes. Then, on their hands and knees, they spread grass over and around them, trying to erase all signs of their work. When Mitrac felt satisfied that any oncoming riders wouldn’t see the deadly holes until they were right on top of them, he gathered his men atop the hill. They formed a rough half-circle that encompassed the hilltop. Swords were withdrawn from their sheaths and stuck into the earth.
Mitrac gazed at each of his archers. They looked nervous, excited, a few of the untested even looked scared. But all them appeared ready to gamble their skill against those of the Sumerians. Thirteen men would try to stop between seventy or eighty horsemen. On open ground, Mitrac knew it couldn’t be done, not against a determined enemy, and these Sumerian horse fighters clearly knew their trade.
But the little hilltop might provide the archers with enough of an edge, and all of his bowmen could loose four aimed shafts in the time it took a man to count to ten. When the horsemen arrived, they would have to decide their course of action. Either attack at once and in full force, or turn aside and take the longer route south.
The waiting began. Mitrac realized he should have kept the men busy, even if it meant digging more holes than needed. The longer they waited, the more time they had to worry, and the more tense they got. He tried to talk to them, but quickly realized he was only making them more nervous. With a shake of his head, Mitrac suddenly understood why Eskkar always remained so grim and silent right before a battle. Better to say nothing, he decided, and just try to look confident.
This time they all heard the horsemen coming, and the ground shook even harder than from Hathor’s passage. Mitrac no longer cared, and without realizing it, he let out a sigh of relief. Two advance riders came into view. They halted at the same place where Hathor stopped as soon as they saw Mitrac’s archers, getting to their feet and readying their weapons. In moments the main force joined the scouts, and the troop halted at the top of the valley, just out of range. A heated discussion soon began, as evidenced by the gestures of the riders.
Mitrac smiled at their hesitation. They didn’t know how many men might be hiding just behind the hill. For all they could tell, all of Eskkar’s archers could be here, just waiting for the chance to slaughter their enemies.
That risk was too great to take. The two scouts turned their horses and began climbing up the valley wall, scrambling their way to the valley rim. Halfway up, the horses stopped, refusing to go any further, and the men dismounted and made their way up the last hundred paces on foot. From there they trotted along the valley rim until they could see behind the hill.
“They’re afraid of our bows,” Mitrac said, as much to reassure his men as himself.
The two scouts continued along the crest, until they could see well up into the valley beyond. They were within range now, and Mitrac considered loosing a few arrows at them, but decided not to waste shafts at such a long distance.
The two men turned suddenly and retraced their steps at a run. Soon they were slipping and sliding down the slope to where their horses waited.
Mitrac possessed very good eyes, and he used them to watch the two men report. They spoke to a rider on a large brown horse with a splash of white across its chest, and another man riding a gray speckled mount. Those would be the leaders. Without thinking, Mitrac took a quick count of his enemy. At least seventy riders, more than enough to wreak havoc in Eskkar’s rear.
“Men, when I give the word, target those two riders.” He described both horses, though he felt certain all his men had identified them by now. “Two shafts from every man, that’s all. But hold until I give the word.”
Now there was nothing to do but wait. Mitrac felt the excitement rising in his chest. He told himself that it wasn’t fear, but that wasn’t entirely true. He and his men had nowhere to go. If they left their vantage point, they’d be run down. His archers now had no choice but to stand together and defend this position. The battle was set, and the next few moments might determine his fate, as well as the fate of all the Akkadians.
“Y ou’re sure there’s no more behind them?”
“Yes, Razrek,” the scout replied, breathing hard from his exertions. “We could see all the way up the valley. And we saw fresh tracks, so the Akkadian cavalry must have just passed through.”
“We’re going to lose a lot of men riding through that gap,” Mattaki said. “Let’s go back and ride around this valley. Eskkar weakened his forces to leave these behind. Even Eridu should be able to hold them off. Why should we lose any of our men trying to get past a handful of archers?”
“They picked their spot well,” Razrek said, ignoring Mattaki’s advice. He studied the ground, searching for any advantage. “By the time we ride around them, the battle will be over.”
“There may not even be a battle,” Mattaki argued. “If the Akkadians haven’t reached Eridu’s soldiers, then we’ll have wasted men and horses for nothing.”
“And if they have reached Eridu’s camp, Eskkar’s archers and his cavalry will smash those fools.”
“Against those odds?” Mattaki shook his head. “And if they do, it’s all the more reason to save our men and horses.”
Razrek shook his head. “No, we can’t take the chance. Even if Eskkar attacks and pushes Eridu’s men back, our men can turn the tide of battle. We’re going through.”
“Damn you, Razrek! What about the archers? Do we ride them down?”
�
�No, half of us would never make it up the hill. A few dead horses and the approach would be blocked. They’d pick us off like flies. We’ll take our chances and ride through. We might still be able to smash Eskkar’s force.”
Even if he lost a quarter of his men, Razrek decided, he would still have enough to turn the battle at the camp. Mattaki thought like a raider, out for easy kills and quick conquests. Razrek perceived the real danger in the situation. If Eskkar broke through, there was nothing to stop him from moving all the way south into Sumeria, to Sumer itself if he wanted. In that case, Razrek and his horsemen might need some luck to get back to Sumer.
Razrek struggled to control his horse. All the animals had picked up the scent of fear and danger from his men, and wanted to mill about. The sooner they got past this handful of bowmen, the better. “Get our bowmen ready!” Razrek shouted. His horsemen had about ten bows, the shorter ones that could be fired from horseback. “Try and take a few shots as we ride through.” It took only a few moments to ready the men.
“We’re going straight through!” he shouted. “Now ride, damn you, ride!”
“T hey’re coming!”
Mitrac smiled at the needless warning, shouted by an excited young archer in his first battle.
“Ready your shafts, men!” Mitrac had to raise his voice to be heard over the hoof beats of the approaching horsemen, but he kept his voice calm. “Aim for the horses and remember to lead your targets!”
Almost the same words Eskkar had repeated again and again at the siege of Akkad. Bring the horse down, and the rider is helpless, either stunned or injured, and suddenly on foot and unsure of himself. An easy kill.
The swiftly moving horses moved into range.
“Loose!” Mitrac gave the command and let fly his own shaft, with just the slightest arch to reach the riders out in front. Thirteen arrows flew toward the onrushing horsemen, galloping as fast as they could, every rider hanging low over his horse’s neck. Well before the first arrows struck, a second flight flew off the bowstrings.
“Target the leaders!” Mitrac shouted the words with all his strength, to be heard over the din of the horses. He launched shaft after shaft at the enemy commander, loosing as fast as he could fit an arrow to the string. Not all his bowmen remembered. A few continued to shoot at the mass of riders, but enough arrows flew toward the enemy commanders, both riding on the far side of the valley, and keeping the moving mass of horses and men between themselves and the hilltop.
Nevertheless, even with at least ten arrows launched at them in the first volley, the two leaders rode through the humming shafts unscathed. Then Mitrac glimpsed an arrow striking the brown and white horse in the flank. The animal reared up, its cry of pain unheard over the thundering hooves, but Mitrac lost sight of his prime targets, now concealed by a mass of horses and men. Instead, he shot his arrows as fast as he could, aiming at the easiest target.
The first horsemen burst past the base of the hill. Mitrac swung his bow around and let a shaft fly. He saw one, then another horse go down, caught by the holes. Even through the din of battle, he heard the bones snapping and the animals’ cries of pain. Some of the following horses jumped the injured animals, others swerved past them, bumping and colliding in the narrow passage, neighing and snapping their teeth in their confusion.
Another horse went down, screaming in agony, its rider pitching forward to land directly in the path of the remaining riders, crushed to death in an instant. But most of the riders swept by, though his archers followed their movement and continued to shoot arrows as fast as they could.
In the excitement, Mitrac had almost forgotten about the enemy commanders. He didn’t recall seeing either of the two horses he’d marked ride past. Turning his gaze back up the valley, he saw five horsemen still remaining, obviously unwilling to chance the ride without the safety of numbers. One pulled a dismounted rider up behind him, and Mitrac saw the brown and white horse sprawled nearby. Once they’d recovered their leader, they took one look at the dead bodies littering the base of the hill. They turned away and galloped back up the valley.
“Archers!” Mitrac pointed with his bow at the retreating horsemen. A few arrows were launched after them. Mitrac loosed four shafts himself, and someone’s aim must have been good, for one of the riders took a shaft in the back and pitched off his mount before the rest moved out of range.
“Good shooting, men!” Mitrac shouted. He had separated at least one, possibly both of the enemy leaders from their men. That alone should slow them down, especially if they had to decide what to do next. Satisfied, Mitrac looked around. One of his men lay on his back, an arrow in his throat. Another cursed steadily, as two companions tried to remove a shaft that had penetrated his arm. Other than those two, the rest of his bowmen were unscathed.
The wounded horses still cried out in their fear and pain, a pitiful noise that concealed the cries of any wounded bandits. “Finish off the wounded. Then put those injured horses out of their misery!” he shouted. “And don’t forget to gather up your arrows!”
He had no idea if the bandits would return, but his men should be able to recover at least half the arrows they’d shot. The archers descended the hill and started killing the enemy wounded. A sword thrust in the neck finished them off. The horses were harder to kill and took longer to die, screaming like women under the clumsy sword strokes of the archers. Mitrac hated killing horses, and their cries only made it worse.
“Mitrac, here’s a horse for you.” One of his men led a horse to the foot of the hill.
Mitrac mounted the animal, and began counting the enemy dead. Back and forth he rode, guiding the skittish horse through the bloody grass littered with bodies. The task took longer than he expected, but at last Mitrac returned to the base of the hill. By then his men had captured two more horses, and waited there for him.
“How many?”
“Eighteen dead men, and twenty-three dead or captured horses. Good shooting, men.”
They cheered at the news, as well they should. Every archer had loosed at least ten arrows, some as many as fifteen, at the enemy cavalry. Mitrac did the calculation in his head. At least a hundred and twenty to a hundred and sixty arrows had been launched. With the loss of a single man, his archers had broken the strength of the enemy horsemen. Even if those who got through reached Eskkar’s forces, the surviving Sumerian horsemen would not be sufficient to overwhelm the Akkadians. And if the unhorsed enemy leader remained to the north, he faced a long and hard ride to rejoin his men.
The plan had worked, and Mitrac felt proud that he had suggested it. He might be the youngest of Eskkar’s commanders, but after this, no one would ever doubt either his courage or his tactics. And that alone made the night’s walk and the morning’s work worthwhile.
6
“What happened?” A stupid question, Razrek knew, as soon as the words left his lips, but his head felt as if a horse had stepped on it. For all he remembered, maybe one had. He found himself sitting on the ground, his back resting against a large rock. A rough edge pressed against his spine, and Razrek shifted to remove the source of the pain. The movement sent a throbbing through his head. He had trouble speaking, and knew his thoughts were sluggish.
“What happened! I’ll tell you what happened.” Mattaki mouthed an oath and spat on the ground. “They littered the ground with our dead and wounded. Your horse took a shaft and went wild. You lost control and he threw you. If we hadn’t stopped to pick you up, you’d probably be dead by now.”
Razrek digested his subcommander’s harsh words. He remembered riding toward the hill, as arrows struck all about him. After that, everything was hazy. He must have fallen hard. His shoulder hurt, too, he realized.
“Well, then, I suppose I owe you my life,” Razrek said. He looked around. “Where are the rest of the men?”
“On the other side of the valley, damn you!” Mattaki shouted, his face a hand’s length from that of his commander. “By the time we stopped to pick you up, the men had
ridden past. We had to turn around and come back. There was no chance of getting through. I lost my horse trying to save your neck.”
For a moment Razrek stared at him, his face empty of emotion. Then he realized what his subcommander’s words meant. “We’re not with our men?”
“Yes… yes… yes,” Mattaki answered, “with at least a dozen archers between us and them. We’ll have to ride around now, which is what we should have done in the first place.”
Razrek sagged back, his head spinning again. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched the side of his head. A massive bruise met his fingers, but he didn’t feel any blood. No doubt he was lucky to be alive.
Without him leading them, his men would find some excuse not to attack Eskkar’s force. They’d lost men and horses. Some would be wounded. They wanted to hear his orders. Those reasons would be enough to stop them from moving farther south. Even worse, Razrek, Mattaki, and the two men with them would have to swing round the valley, a time-wasting trip, and then have to hope they could catch up with their men.
“Is it finally sinking in?” Mattaki said with a sneer. “Or is your head still addled?”
“Damn you to the pits, watch your mouth!” Razrek held out his arm and Mattaki pulled him to his feet. For a moment, he thought he would fall down, but then the dizziness passed, and he felt the strength returning to his limbs. A sharp pain accompanied every movement of his head. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we catch up with our men the better.”
“If they haven’t scattered to the four winds,” Mattaki said.
His subcommander, too, knew what kind of men they commanded. They fought for gold and loot, and a chance to pillage. For weeks they enjoyed nothing but easy raids on helpless farmers. Now they felt the reach of Akkad’s arrows. They’d look for any excuse to avoid a dangerous and unprofitable fight.