Battle For Empire

9

The silvery stream glistened in the faint moonlight, its gurgling passage a soothing murmur of endless repetitions as it flowed along the boundary of the Akkadian camp. To Shappa, however, the sound was only another distraction. His men were out there, on the enemy side of the stream, while he remained safe, surrounded by the Akkadian host.

Crouched down in the dark, Shappa swore at the responsibility of command. He wanted to be with his men, crawling around on the rocky ground, listening for the slight sounds of the enemy moving toward them. Instead, as commander of Akkad’s slingers, Shappa had to send others out to risk their lives, when he, with all his heart, wanted to be at their side.

If he had told Eskkar that he wanted to join his skirmishers across the stream, Eskkar would probably have let him go. Afterward, assuming Shappa survived, the King would have selected someone else to take command of the slingers.

Foolish courage, as Eskkar often reminded everyone, did not always win battles. A commander had a higher responsibility to his men, all his men. That responsibility demanded that Shappa stay behind, where he was most needed and could do the most good.

Tonight Shappa’s main duty was not to fight, but to get the reports of his scouts, assess the information, and relay his conclusions to Eskkar and the other commanders. Not to mention Shappa might have to dispatch more slingers if necessary.

Still, he was eager to fight. He wanted to prove to all of Akkad, once and for all, the value of his men. In their hands, the sling became a powerful weapon, especially at close range. But in the last five years, he’d trained them to move through the darkness without a sound, and to strike and withdraw unseen.

Now those skills would be put to the test. The duty of his skirmishers was to first gather information, then disrupt and harry the enemy’s forces until the more powerful fighting units of Akkad could be brought into play. In the blackness of night, Shappa’s slingers would be even more effective.

These Alur Meriki warriors might be fearsome fighters on a horse, but Shappa doubted they would do as well at night and on foot.

Shappa had learned all the skills of a night hunter at an early age. He’d grown up on a farm just a day’s journey from Akkad. As the youngest son in a family of six, he seldom got enough to eat, and soon became skilled at hunting for food among the night creatures, if he wanted to eat well. Rabbits, rodents, small game, birds, even a young deer, anything that moved after the sun went down soon fell victim to his expert sling.

Tonight Shappa envied his companions, most of them with less than sixteen seasons, who now risked their lives facing the hardy and ferocious barbarians. They might be afraid deep inside, but the bravado of youth easily overcame that, and he felt confident they could handle themselves.

A glance into the night sky showed the waxing moon still rising. Its dim light marked the dark hulk of the cliff to the north. Shappa had positioned men with the keenest night vision on the massive stone towers that rose up over the stream. He had to stay in contact with those above, making sure that news of any enemy movement they spotted reached the King’s ears.

Nevertheless, Shappa grimaced in frustration, as he touched the leather sling at his belt. It was going to be a long night.

In the Alur Meriki encampment, Thutmose-sin sat beside a small fire. Its low flames did nothing to warm the small circle of clan leaders gathered around it. Only a handful of glowing fires marked his warriors’ camp. Wood and anything else that would burn was scarce in these foothills, and the few clumps of horse dung dry enough to burn had already gone up in smoke. His guards had done well to collect even these few twigs to light their Sarum’s meeting.

On the other side of the hill lay darkness. The Akkadians had no campfires, and only the stream remained faintly visible in the dim moonlight. The sun had disappeared from the western sky some time ago, and the deep shadows from the cliff walls soon covered the landscape between the two forces. And hiding, Thutmose-sin hoped, the number and movements of his men.

Urgo arrived last, leaning on a stick as he limped his way to the edge of the fire to join the other war chiefs.

Thutmose-sin glanced up. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Sarum.” Despite his misgivings, Urgo had worked with all the clan leaders to prepare the attack. “Bekka and Altanar will lead their clans and attack along the southern edge of the stream. When they are in position, Suijan, Narindar, and Praxa will move forward and launch an arrow storm at the center of the dirt eaters’ battle line. They will empty their quivers and then attack. After that, it will be up to you.”

“After Suijan has begun his attack against the center,” Thutmose-in said, “I will lead the rest of our men against the northern part of the line.”

The cliff anchored the northern and apparently strongest end. If the dirt eaters believed the main attack was to the south, they would likely move some of their men down the line to face that threat.

“We will not fail you,” Suijan answered for the others.

Thutmose-sin studied their faces. “Make sure your men do not attack until Bekka and Altanar are in place and have begun the assault. If you move too soon, the enemy will not shift any of their men. Remember, we want them to think our attack is concentrated at the south.”

The southern part of the Akkadian line appeared the weakest, or at least the most exposed. If Thutmose-sin had more time, he would have sent a few hundred horsemen south to circle around the Akkadian camp. But that couldn’t be done in one day. The earliest those riders would be in position would be the following night, and tonight he knew he would need all his warriors.

“We will give you time to get into position, Sarum,” Suijan said.

Once the battle began, Thutmose-sin and Bar’rack would lead their men, over six hundred fighters, forward. They would stay close to the northern cliffs. The warriors would creep and crawl through the darkness, to get as near as possible before being seen.

The noise of the fighting should mask any sounds they made. With only a short distance to cover, they would swarm across the stream and break into the enemy’s line.

“Make sure the leaders of ten and twenty understand what is to happen.” Thutmose-sin hardened his tone. “There are to be no foolish charges, no loud talking. This battle must occur step by step, like three separate blows of the smith’s hammer on the forging stone.”

He turned to Bar’rack. “Are your men assembled and ready?”

“Yes, Sarum. And Urgo and I have instructed your men as well. Our warriors will fight bravely together.”

Thutmose-sin smiled at that. It had been many years since the Sarum of the Alur Meriki had waded into battle at the head of his clansmen. “We will, indeed. And Urgo will remain behind, with fifty warriors. He will send them in wherever they are needed.”

He turned toward his old friend. “Remember, Urgo, dispatch your men only if victory hangs in the balance. Do not waste their lives if the battle goes against us.”

“I will follow your orders,” Urgo said.

Thutmose-sin nodded. Urgo understood the value of each and every Alur Meriki warrior. He would not waste their lives foolishly. Thutmose-sin had another reason for leaving the old warrior in the rear. If Thutmose-sin were killed in the attack, Urgo would provide the voice of reason and wisdom in the Council, hopefully as the next Sarum.

“Then it is time. Start moving the men.”

As soon as night covered the ground, Markesh, second in command of the Akkadian slingers, said his farewell to Shappa. At the head of his men, Markesh led the group of sixty skirmishers across the stream in a single file. They crossed over at the northern end, as close to the cliff wall as possible. The shadows there blocked the moon’s rays, and the slingers took advantage of the deeper darkness.

Like all the men chosen for this expedition, Markesh was short and slim. He moved with care through the water, crouching over and ignoring the chill that numbed his feet and lower legs. He took his time wading across and made sure he didn’t make any unnecessary splashes that might reveal their presence in the water.

The tinkling stream covered what little sounds the slingers made. Their dark tunics helped conceal them as well. The archers, spearmen, and cavalry of Akkad’s fighting men all wore tunics the color of wheat, the natural tint of the linen.

The slingers, at Trella’s suggestion, wore garments dyed a light brown. At night, the slingers were almost impossible to see, and even during the daylight, when they hugged the ground, they tended to blend in with the sands or rocks of the landscape.

Once across, Markesh waited on the far side of the stream and counted his men. When the last of them had reached the opposite bank, they formed into three groups. Markesh took the first group of twenty, the one that had the farthest to go. He led the way, hugging the ground and crawling on his hands and knees.

One by one, his men followed after him, like a long snake slithering soundlessly over the rocks. Markesh kept the stream on his right, but slowly he angled away from the water, into the deeper darkness.

Shappa and Eskkar had warned him that the likeliest point of attack remained the southern end of the stream, and Markesh insisted on taking that position himself. If the barbarians tried to creep up under the cover of darkness, he would encounter them first. His orders were to stop them if he could, or delay them as much as possible. In any case, he had to send back knowledge of their strength.

Like the rest of his men, Markesh carried only his sling, twenty bronze bullets, and his sharp knife. The long curved blade made for a dangerous weapon at close range. When combined with the quick reflexes of agile young men, the well-trained slingers could defend themselves even against a sword. At night, creeping along on the ground, they could strike like a deadly serpent.

Though he made almost no sound, Markesh covered the ground quickly. At least, he decided, he wouldn’t have to crawl back. More likely he’d end up with an arrow in his back as he tried to retreat across the stream.

He had no trouble finding his way. The stream on his right glistened in the moonlight, and marked the line of the Akkadian defenders. Still, Markesh breathed a sigh of relief when he reached his first position, about sixty paces from the water. A slight rise in the ground concealed his prone body, and he lifted his head to stare into the darkness.

Glancing to his left, he saw nothing, which meant that the rest of his men had settled into their positions. He waited a few more moments, to give his men time to settle down.

One last look around, and he whispered the order to move out. Taking care not to make the slightest sound, Markesh and his men crawled away from the safety of the stream, straight toward the Alur Meriki position. The entire line of slingers would take their station on him. If all went well, they would crawl another hundred paces toward the enemy, then settle in to await the dawn.

If the barbarians attacked tonight, they would be in for an unpleasant and hopefully unexpected surprise. They would be expecting their enemy to be beyond the stream, not right in their path. Regardless, Markesh had his orders. Identify the point of attack, send word back to Shappa and Eskkar, and slow down any assaulting force. He took some pride in knowing that he would probably be the first to meet the Alur Meriki attack.

Standing just behind the ranks of spearmen, Eskkar and Mitrac watched the slingers move into position. Eskkar’s eyes had lost the keenest of his youth, and his ability to see into the night’s shadows had suffered as well. It took some time to discern the crawling men. If they made any noise, he couldn’t hear it over the gurgling of the stream, and he doubted if any Alur Meriki could either.

Then the line of skirmishers vanished. “I can’t see them any more.”

The moment he uttered the words, Eskkar swore under his breath. Of course he couldn’t see them. They weren’t supposed to be seen. He hated revealing his nervousness by making foolish statements.

“They’ve moved away from the stream,” Mitrac said. “I can just make out the last of them disappearing toward the hill.”

Eskkar gritted his teeth, grateful for the darkness that hid his frustration. Still, the master bowman Mitrac, raised in the vast distances of the northern steppes, had better eyesight than most men.

“Now we wait.” Only the growl in his voice betrayed Eskkar’s tension.

“I’ll go check on my bowmen,” Mitrac said, no doubt glad for the excuse to leave the King’s brooding presence.

All the Akkadian archers, including Hathor’s men, sat on the ground, their weapons ready. The men tried to rest, catching a few moments of sleep when they could, but always prepared for battle. If the barbarians attacked, arrows would be flying everywhere, and every man who wielded a bow needed to be ready.

Eskkar had already made his own preparations, donning the bronze plates that formed a layer of protection across his chest and back. A bronze helmet lined with leather fitted snugly on his head, with flanges on each side that extended down to cover his temples, and reached nearly to the back of his neck. Eskkar had first worn the armor at the battle of Isin, more than eight years ago.

Since then, he always wore the helmet and chest plates when he practiced his swordsmanship. The extra weight and bulk tended to slow him down, and forced him to work his muscles harder on the exercise ground.

At least twice a year Trella made sure the bronze laces and shoulder straps fit perfectly. She understood that the more natural his movements, the more likely he would survive.

Tonight he felt grateful for the added protection. Unlike most of his men, who would be kneeling or crouched over, Eskkar would be standing upright and moving up and down the line. The small shield he’d brought with him from Aratta would help, but he couldn’t depend on that alone. Arrows would be plummeting from the darkness, and the more protection, the better.

Like most soldiers, Eskkar had his own personal fear. Some men envisioned a sword piercing their bellies, others trembled at the thought of a blade in their groin. For Eskkar, it was the vision of an arrow striking him in the eye, carrying his death on its point. He shrugged the gloomy image away, and concentrated on his duty.

Moving along the line, he reached Hathor’s position at the center of the Akkadian position. The Egyptian had no bow, but close to his hand five lances had been thrust into the ground. Hathor could fling the slim, bronze-tipped weapon with the best of his men, whether from horseback or standing on the ground. He, too, had a shield slung over his shoulder.

Eskkar resisted the urge to ask if Hathor’s men were ready. If any of them weren’t, Hathor would have told him. “Can you see anything?”

Another stupid question had slipped past Eskkar’s lips.

“Nothing, Captain. It’s as black as a demon’s cave out there.” Hathor keep his eyes on the far side of the stream. “If anyone’s out there, I hope the slingers find them.”

Eskkar grunted. “Damn all this night fighting.”

From the hill that overlooked the Alur Meriki camp, Bekka moved his men forward, creeping down the hill and hugging the darkest shadows. Over two hundred warriors followed behind him, each making their way as best they could while trying to make as little noise as possible. Progress remained slow, however, and he heard the muffled curses mixed with the faint clink of bronze weapons scraping over the rough ground.

The distance from the hill to the stream, only a short ride on horseback, took much longer than expected for men on foot. By the time Bekka reached the halfway point, he knew the first part of Thutmose-sin’s plan had already gone astray. He and his men would be late getting into position.

Every twenty paces, Bekka lifted his head and looked toward the Akkadian camp. At last he glimpsed the silvery gleam of the stream, now less than two hundred paces away. He thought he could hear the water rushing along. Dropping to his knees, he continued his slow march forward, his men following his example.

Despite the noise from the stream, Bekka decided the Akkadians would hear them coming long before his men got into position. Many of the extra fighters assigned to Bekka’s command consisted of old men and young boys. Both lacked the hard discipline of mature warriors. They would fight and die bravely enough, but it was too much to expect them to move silently.

Bekka swore under his breath at the too frequent noises behind him. To his ears, it sounded as loud as a mounted charge. Once again he wondered if the war gods had determined to claim his soul tonight. He cursed the Akkadians for drawing him and the Alur Meriki into this night fight.

Thoughts of death, something no warrior should acknowledge, had lurked in Bekka’s thoughts since Thutmose-sin had selected him to ride out and meet with Eskkar. The leader of the Alur Meriki had picked Bekka, one of the youngest chiefs, instead of the older and wiser leaders like Suijan or Praxa. Thutmose-sin hadn’t bothered to explain his choice, and his curt voice when he announced his decision had silenced any questions from the others.

Still, Bekka had seen the looks on the other chiefs’ faces. Bekka might have been at the stream longer than any of the chiefs, but that seemed like a weak explanation. Bar’rack’s selection was merely to test Eskkar’s willingness to be drawn into a fight.

Bekka pushed these thoughts from his mind. Whatever Thutmose-sin’s reason, it no longer mattered. Bekka’s duty demanded that he do his utmost in the attack, and he knew how slim the odds were that he would survive the coming encounter.

Though no one expected the dirt eaters to be sleeping at their posts, Bekka hoped to catch them at least slightly off guard, giving the attack a chance to succeed. Besides their bows and swords, most of Bekka’s force carried lances, more useful weapons at close range.

Fifty paces behind Bekka, Altanar would be guiding his own clan and half of Bekka’s, keeping three hundred warriors ready to support Bekka’s attack when it began. Altanar’s men would rise up as one and launch the first volley of arrows, arching them high to avoid striking Bekka’s men, to break the ranks of the dirt eaters. Or so Bekka had told his men. The thought of taking an arrow in the back from his own kind didn’t appeal to him.

He swore again at the slow progress. The plan that had seemed reasonable enough around the council fire now appeared fraught with danger. Bekka’s forces leading the attack were going to take heavy losses.

He just hoped they succeeded in their task. A warrior’s main duty was to fight, but Bekka hated the thought of dying for nothing. He and his men had to buy enough time for Thutmose-sin and the brunt of the Alur Meriki forces to launch their assault.

That meant that Bekka and Altanar had to keep fighting until their Sarum attacked. Bekka had no doubts about the fighting ability of these Akkadians. He’d seen them prepare to attack his warriors on the hill, and their cold efficiency in cutting down the riders in the steam. Win or lose tonight, Bekka knew it was unlikely he would survive.

As Markesh had instructed his slingers before they left camp, they settled down in a rough line about a hundred and fifty paces beyond the stream. Overhead, the faint sliver of the moon moved slowly across the night sky, its journey the only way to tell that most of the night had night already passed.

Dawn was not far off, and Markesh almost convinced himself that there would be no nighttime attack when he first heard the muted scrape of bronze on stone, or perhaps a bow dragging along the ground, faint sounds that grew ever louder, and more frequent.

He remained motionless, his eyes closed so that he could hear better. Soon the little telltale noises grew louder, and Markesh guessed that a sizeable enemy force was moving toward him. Despite their attempts to keep silent, the Alur Meriki could not muffle all the sounds of their approach.

At last Markesh opened his eyes and nodded in satisfaction. As he expected, the Alur Meriki might be fearsome warriors, but they lacked experience in this kind of fighting. The slingers, however, had prepared for an encounter like this, and they could move in near silence. While the rest of Eskkar’s army practiced by day, Markesh and the others like him spent half their time training at night.

The wait seemed endless, as Markesh heard the clumsy movements of the enemy approaching his position. Still, those sounds were not yet loud enough to be heard on the Akkadian side of the stream.

Lying flat on the earth, Markesh’s heart beat rapidly in his chest, and his mouth felt dry, though he had gulped plenty of water before setting out. He wasn’t afraid, not really, but excitement threatened to overwhelm him. Then he glimpsed a dark hump of a shadow moving toward him. Markesh wondered if the approaching enemy could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

He gripped his sling, and took a deep breath. A faint whirr sounded less than five paces to his left. One of his men had struck first. The smack of the bronze ball striking flesh wasn’t loud, but the gasp of pain from the warrior carried over the ground.

Markesh rose to his knees, and spun a missile toward the still-approaching shadow, now less than twenty paces away. A muffled oath marked the bullet’s strike, but Markesh had already ducked back down, and slipped another missile into the sling’s pouch.

All around him, Markesh heard the soft but continuous whirring that marked each throw of a sling. Not every cast scored a hit, but the throws continued, as the slingers hurled missile after missile at any and every approaching shadow. The effect on the warriors proved all that Markesh could expect.

Bekka heard the unseen missiles striking all around him. His men were under some kind of attack, but he could see no one. Only when a stone glanced off the earth, its impact kicking dirt in his face, did he understand what was happening. The Akkadians had moved their slingers, dismissed by the Alur Meriki warriors as a feeble fighting force, into the ground between the stream and Bekka’s position. And now these boys were striking at his warriors with deadly force and at close range.

Neither Thutmose-sin nor any of the other clan leaders had foreseen this. Bekka swore at his own stupidity. Of course the Akkadians would have scouts out in the land beyond the stream. Clenching his teeth, Bekka squirmed forward and hugged the ground.

He’d covered only a few more paces when he realized the plan had broken down. All surprise had vanished with the loud groans of Bekka’s wounded. This invisible enemy had to be swept aside, or they were going to stop the attack before it even reached the stream. Bekka lifted himself to one knee. “Warriors! Attack! Attack!”

He matched his own words. Leaping to his feet, he rushed toward his unseen attackers, sword in one hand, shield in the other. His warriors, as frustrated as their clan leader at this invisible and silent enemy, rose to their feet, let loose their war cries, and charged after their leader. In a moment, two hundred warriors raced through the darkness, as heedless of the slingers before them as of the treacherous ground underfoot.

The night erupted with the battle cries of the Alur Meriki. So far no arrows had come from the Akkadians. A few paces ahead, Bekka now glimpsed men fleeing toward the stream, and guessed these must be the slingers, running for the safety of their lines.

From behind, Bekka heard the first flight of Altanar’s arrows hissing their way toward the Akkadian position. Then Bekka’s own men began to fall, some crashing to the ground on either side, and he heard their curses as the sharp, bronze-tipped Akkadian arrows smacked into their flesh.

Something hummed past his ear, but Bekka kept moving. Twice he stumbled over the loose rocks the Akkadians had scattered on the bank, but both times he regained his footing. Then he reached the stream, and splashed into the chilly water.

The force of the current slowed him down, but Bekka lunged forward. Younger and more agile warriors surged ahead of him, kicking up plumes of cold water. Several fell on the slippery footing and crashed headlong into the water. Others went down and failed to rise. Death had taken them. Bekka heard the curses of the wounded join with the war cries of his men.

Breathing hard, he staggered onto the far side of the stream. By now Bekka could see the white blurs that marked the faces of the enemy. Already a few of his men flung themselves onto the Akkadians.

Then Bekka reached the enemy line. With a savage whirl, he knocked a spear aside and swung his blade with all his strength. A scream of pain burst into his face. More of his men surged out of the water and reached his side, cutting and hacking with their swords, others thrusting with their lances. Shouts of rage mixed with the cries of the wounded. He glimpsed men falling all around him, and wondered when the arrow or spear tip would rend his own flesh.

The Akkadian line sagged for a moment, but it held, and as fast as Bekka could swing his blade, another sword or spear thrust at his breast. Arrows shot at such close range ripped into his men, turning war cries into screams of pain. Twisting and dodging, he fought back. At the same time, he urged his men to break through the enemy’s line.

While the front lines of both forces fought grimly, archers on both sides kept pouring shafts into the ranks. Altanar’s warriors continued shooting their arrows as they charged forward. Bekka cursed as one of his fighters stumbled to the earth, an arrow in the back of his neck. The two forces had closed together, and Altanar’s bowmen had little to aim at.

Bekka might be struck from behind by his own kind, the worst way to die. He crouched down as he fought. The Akkadian archers launched shafts so fast that most of his men were killed or wounded even before they could bring their swords into play.

A spear burned along his left side, and Bekka stepped into the thrust and shoved the point of his blade into the spearman’s face. Then the crush of warriors pushed him forward and up against the front rank of the Akkadians. Bekka voiced his battle cry as he struggled to free his sword arm. They were going to break through the enemy’s line. He could feel it.

Another Akkadian spear thrust at his belly. He shoved it aside with his sword, but before he could react, the thick edge of a shield smashed into his forehead, knocking him backward. As Bekka struggled to regain his footing, a sword cut into his right arm, sending a wave of pain through his body and making his own weapon slip from his fingers.

A strong arm caught Bekka by the shoulder and dragged him back, away from the carnage of the line. Then Bekka’s feet felt the cold water of the stream. All around him warriors were falling back, away from the battle line and their Akkadian pursuers.

Bekka shook himself free and took a step back toward the Akkadians.

“It’s over,” Unegen shouted. “The attack has failed.”

Bekka glanced to his left and right. Unegen pulled him back into the water, and in a moment, they had joined the others, moving as fast as they could. Arrows still hissed into their midst, and Bekka waited for the one that would strike him down and take his life. Then they were across the stream, stumbling through the rocks and back into the dark shadows.

Bekka ran as hard as he could, gasping for breath. Then he flung himself behind a rise in the ground. Unegen, gulping air into his body, dropped to the ground beside him.

“We failed.” Bekka uttered the bitter words.

“At least we’re alive,” Unegen said.

“Yes, at least we’re alive,” Bekka answered. “For now.”

From the northern end of the warrior advance, Thutmose-sin watched the attack. For some reason, Bekka had started his assault early. The center force had also pushed its way forward and into the stream and launched their attack, and now the far side of the water roiled as men charged up the bank and flung themselves at the hated dirt eaters. He couldn’t see much, but the noise of the conflict had risen, the echoes bouncing off the cliffs and hills and adding to the din.

“We must attack now!” Bar’rack had moved to Thutmose-sin’s side. “The warriors have not broken the line.”

“It’s almost time. Get back to your men,” he hissed. “Await my signal.”

Thutmose-sin lifted himself from the ground, to get a better look at the fighting. The splashes in the stream had almost ceased, so he knew all of Bekka’s warriors had crossed the water. He glimpsed Akkadians moving behind their line. If the dirt eaters had shifted their fighters, it was indeed time to attack.

“Bar’rack! Warriors! Attack! Attack!”

He rose to his feet and raced toward the stream, voicing the age old battle cry of the Alur Meriki, the undulating wail that had never failed to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.

Up on the cliff face that overlooked the northern end of the stream, over twenty slingers clung to the steep sides, crouching in crevices or kneeling on tiny ledges scarcely wide enough for a foot hold. Luka, a leader of twenty, commanded these men. When the attack began at the far end of the stream, they’d moved from their hiding places into more open positions, finding their footing and seeking advantageous outcroppings where they could use their slings. They were more exposed, but they could fight more efficiently.

Even before the attack, Luka had seen the ground, nearly thirty paces below, slowly shift. Looking down, he glimpsed movement everywhere, and what looked like a mass of shadows writhing across the rocky ground directly beneath him. It took a moment before he realized that a large number of Alur Meriki were creeping toward the stream.

When the attack began, he’d expected the barbarians below him to rise up and join their companions. However these warriors held back, either waiting for orders or for some other unknown reason. Whatever held them back, Luka stayed his own hand. He wanted clear targets for his precious bronze bullets, and didn’t want to waste a single one on what might be a shadow.

A voice from the shadows below shouted something in the barbarian tongue. Instantly the ground came alive, as a mass of men rose up and raced toward the stream. For a moment, Luka stared open-mouthed at the warriors, surprised at their numbers. How could so many men have gotten so close to the stream? He had paid too much attention to the attacks on the rest of the line.

“Now! Throw!” Luka’s words launched the first wave of stones. He spun his own weapon, hurling a bronze bullet into the moving mass of men below him. Before the sling had completed its revolution, he had a second missile in position. His left hand caught the still moving leather pouch, and the loose cord whipped up as he seated the stone. Another savage snap of his wrist and shoulder sent the second heavy pellet toward the barbarians below.

His few men could not hope to stem the flow, but by now arrows from the Akkadian ranks at the base of the cliff began shooting as well. The barbarians loosed their own shafts as they charged. Screams and curses floated up into the air from both sides of the attack. Luka ignored them all as he worked his sling.

Despite the battle rage, years of training kept the stones flying from his weapon. He soon realized the warriors below showed no interest in the handful of slingers atop the cliff, so Luka and his men stood upright and hurled their missiles with even greater force at the barbarians now splashing across the stream, shouting their unnerving war cries.

From his place behind the archers, Eskkar heard the barbarian war cries, and saw the mass of Alur Meriki warriors charging toward the stream. He’d already dispatched some of the northernmost men to help out in the center and southern part of the defense line, and there was no time to get them back. Eskkar drew his sword as the first wave of barbarian warriors burst into the water, their churning feet sending splashes high into the air, almost as if asking the water to conceal their movements.

At least he had no need to bellow orders. The archers and cavalry men loosed their arrows as fast as they could. Many launched ten or more arrows before the first wave of the enemy charged up from the stream and hurled themselves at the Akkadians.

But the barbarians found more than archers waiting for them. Akkadian spearmen stood there. They had not formed the solid ranks they preferred. Eskkar hadn’t brought enough of them for that. But every fourth man in that part of the line carried a shield and a spear, and the sharp tips of their weapons glistened in the moonlight.

None of the spearmen waited for the Alur Meriki to reach them. Nearly every spearman impaled a warrior with his first thrust, stepping forward with a long stride and using their bodies and extending their arms to ram home the long weapon, often brushing aside an enemy sword or lance.

Some of Eskkar’s spearmen lost the use of their weapon with that first kill, as dying men and clinging flesh clamped themselves on the weapons. But the Akkadians, trained for that occurrence, too, and drew swords from their scabbards even as they took a step back and raised their shields up to their eyes.

With their shoulders lowered behind the shield, the spearmen stood firm, hacking and jabbing at their enemy. Unlike the Alur Meriki warriors, who preferred to swing their swords overhead and in a downward arc, Gatus had trained the Akkadians to hold their swords low and thrust up, taking a step forward at the same time, and aiming for belly wounds.

When the barbarians swung their swords, the spearmen took a step back, then moved forward and lunged again. That gave the spearmen another advantage, as they could execute two or more thrusting attacks for every overhead swing of the enemy warriors.

Meanwhile, behind and between the Akkadian ranks, arrows shot at eye level, both from the longbows and the shorter cavalry weapons, wreaked deadly damage on the charging attackers.

Eskkar glanced up and down the line. He glimpsed Hathor, his supply of lances expended, wading into the line, sword in hand. Mitrac had started with three quivers of arrows, and he still loosed his shafts, their powerful sting searching out the most ferocious barbarians, and probably killing a man with each arrow.

Despite the Akkadians’ efforts, the northern portion of their line weakened under the ferocious onslaught, but Shappa arrived, returning from the southern end of the battle line. He brought fifty or so slingers with him. He’d collected Markesh’s men after they regrouped back on the Akkadian side of the stream, and now led them at a run to the northern end of the line. Unable to use their preferred weapons against such a crowded mass, the slingers carried their long knives in hand.

Wherever the line of defenders appeared weak, Shappa shoved his men forward to reinforce those points. Young and fearless, they relied on their quickness and agility to avoid their stronger and larger opponents. While his men lacked the size and weight to battle a warrior face to face, they could slip in, strike low, duck under any enemy thrust, and dart back as they’d trained, taking a man down with a thrust to the thigh, stomach, or groin.

The barbarian attack slowed, devastated by the hail of arrows at such close range, and the hail of stones that descended from the cliff. Meanwhile, the Akkadian line recovered and hardened. The spearmen were difficult to bring down, and they used their shields as effectively as their swords.

Akkad! Kill! The Akkadian war cries grew louder and stronger, giving strength to Eskkar’s men.

Even the Alur Meriki could not break such a defense. By now more than eight hundred archers and bowmen had each emptied at least a quiver of arrows into the barbarian horde. Their surge halted.

Eskkar sensed the moment had come. “Spearmen! Attack! Drive them back!”

He pushed his way through the archers and flung himself into the line. His long sword swung down, knocking aside a blade and striking deep into a warrior’s shoulder. His bronze helmet and chest plate turned aside an enemy’s sword thrust.

Using his small shield as adroitly as any of his spearmen, Eskkar pressed forward, using his shoulder to knock another man back, and smashing the thick ball of bronze that formed his sword’s hilt into the face of another.

All the Akkadians were shouting now, matching the barbarian war cries in volume, as they moved forward and forced the warriors back. The defenders sensed their opponent’s wavering.

The Alur Meriki had done their best, but the relentless storm of arrows, accompanied by stones flung at them from above, had killed or wounded too many of Thutmose-sin’s warriors to enable the attackers to overwhelm Eskkar’s line. Not enough warriors had survived the crossing to break the Akkadian ranks.

Pushed back a few steps by the Akkadians’ advance, it took only moments before the retreat turned into a rout, as the warriors turned and fled back through the water. Only a few arrows hissed through the air during their retreat. Many of the archers had dropped their bows and taken up swords to contain the assault, while others had expended all their shafts. Splashes roiled the waters of the stream, masking the violent sounds of men cursing and shouting in their rage.

Then the splashes died away. Gradually the water resumed its normal gurgle, as the Alur Meriki disappeared into the darkness, heading back toward their own hill.

Now the cries of the wounded ascended into the night, the awful sound as injured men on both sides writhed in pain, most of them knowing that death would soon take them. Ignoring their cries, Eskkar halted at the edge of the stream, breathing hard. Some of his men had splashed into the water. He raised his voice and bellowed.

“Everyone! Back to the line! Back to the line!”

Holding his shield before him, Eskkar backed away from the stream, glancing frequently to make sure of his footing. Bodies and loose stones, both now covered in blood, might still send a man tumbling to the ground.

His commanders and leaders of ten and twenty repeated his order. Soon all the Akkadian survivors were back in their original position. Every man gulped air as fast as he could, chests rising and falling.

Swords and spears now seemed almost too heavy to hold, and more than a few were dragged along the ground as the suddenly exhausted men stumbled back. Some realized for the first time that they had taken wounds. Others, still caught up in the battle fever, continued to hurl curses at their enemies.

Many Alur Meriki dead remained in the stream, their bodies snagged on rocks or jammed fast against other bodies. One by one, those floated clear of whatever obstruction held them, and drifted away. That, too, lasted only a few moments, before most of the dead were swept downstream, and water ran clear once again.

Only a handful of bodies, those caught on the rocks, still bled into the cold water. The ground between the Akkadian line and the stream remained littered with the dead and dying, along with a collection of swords, lances, bows, and other enemy weapons.

“I don’t think they’ll be back tonight.” Hathor, breathing heavily, had reached Eskkar’s side.

Eskkar shook the battle fury from his thoughts. “The rest of the line? Are they. .”

“We held them all the way,” Hathor said. “These must have been the pick of the attackers. None of the others fought as hard or lasted as long as these did.”

Eskkar could still hear the sounds of the warriors retreating. At least they’d stopped shooting arrows toward the Akkadian side of the stream. “I’ll see to the men.”

Eskkar moved down the line, speaking to his soldiers, talking with Alexar and the other commanders along the way. Before he reached the southernmost part of the line, Eskkar had spoken with almost every leader of ten and twenty he encountered, asking them how they’d fought, and making sure they aided their wounded. He knew his men would remember his concern.

Many men had received a wound, either an arrow or the thrust or slash of a sword. Some of these lay on the ground, tended to by their companions. The piteous cries of the wounded, the aftermath of every battle, fanned the anger of the survivors.

The dead, most with arrows still protruding from their bodies, were dragged to the rear. They would have to wait until sunrise before they could receive whatever burial rites his men could offer.

By the time Eskkar had moved up and down the line twice, the sky in the east had begun to lighten. Dawn approached, and very likely another attack. Nevertheless, the water yet glistened in the faint moonlight, and it still belonged to the Akkadians.