Battle For Empire

17

With a few rapid-spoken words that Sargon didn’t understand, Chinua gave Garal his instructions and left the two young men alone. Sargon turned to Garal, who didn’t look much older than Sargon. Only average in height, Garal’s black hair hung down to his shoulders. A small but jagged scar ran from his right eyebrow halfway to his ear.

Nothing about Sargon’s teacher appeared impressive, except for the powerful muscles in his arms. Sargon would have recognized the mark of an archer even if Garal didn’t have a bow slung across his chest and a quiver of arrows on his hip. A sword, almost as long as the one Eskkar carried, jutted up over his right shoulder.

Garal handed Sargon the halter to his horse. Then with an ease that impressed Sargon, Garal swung onto the back of a rangy, spotted stallion, and said something in the Ur Nammu language.

Sargon shook his head in confusion. Garal repeated the word. “Teneg!” This time he pointed to the horse. “Teneg.”

Obviously Garal did not speak the language of the Land Between the Rivers. Still, Sargon realized what he meant. Without attempting to match the ease of his instructor, he climbed up onto the back of his horse.

“Utga!” Garal jabbed his finger toward Sargon. “Utga Oruulah!” This time he touched his heels to the horse, which broke into a canter.

Swearing at this foolishness, Sargon followed after the young warrior, already fifty paces ahead. How could he learn anything, if Garal couldn’t even speak the language of Akkad? Sargon urged his horse along the same path. He had no idea where they were going. He had no water skin, no weapon of any kind, so they couldn’t be going far.

But obviously Garal expected Sargon to ride. Gritting his teeth, Sargon kicked his horse into a faster pace, and gradually caught up with his new mentor, until he rode only a few strides behind.

The horses swept through the thick grass that sighed beneath their hooves as the two young men rode west. To the north stretched the snow-capped peaks of the Zagros Mountains. To the south, the hilly plains extended into the distance, gradually leveling off into the woodlands and meadows where isolated herders tended their flocks.

For the rest of the morning, Sargon matched his guide’s movements. Garal varied the pace, dropping from a canter to a walk, or sometimes a trot, depending on the ground. A few times he put his horse to a gallop, but not for any length of time. Mostly Garal rode, as Sargon soon learned, at the usual pace of the steppes warriors, cantering for a good length of time or until the horse began to tire, before falling back into a quick walk to let the animal catch its breath.

As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Sargon wondered where they were going. Already they’d traveled many miles from the Ur Nammu camp, moving at a much faster pace than what his father and the Akkadians usually set. Already Sargon’s leg muscles and backside protested the constant movement, though Garal seemed unaffected. Finally Sargon decided he’d ridden far enough. He eased his horse to a stop.

Hearing the cessation of Sargon’s hoof beats, Garal also slowed, then halted. Twisting astride his mount, he waved his hand, Obviously urging Sargon to continue. “Utga!”

Sargon shook his head. “No. My horse needs to rest.”

Though the horse had not been ridden yesterday, Sargon had sensed the animal growing tired, while Garal’s mount still seemed as fresh as when they’d started out. His father always claimed that the steppes tribes bred the strongest horses, and Sargon decided that it must be true.

Garal turned his stallion around and trotted back to Sargon. He approached on Sargon’s right, and halted his horse close enough for their knees to touch. With a quick movement, his right arm stiffened, catching Sargon in the chest with the flat of his hand. The powerful blow caught Sargon unprepared, and he tumbled from his mount. He landed heavily on his shoulder.

“Utga.” Garal pointed to the horse, then swung his arm around until it pointed once again in the direction they had been traveling. “Utga.”

Furious at himself for being caught by surprise, Sargon pushed himself to his feet. “No! No utga! Rest first.”

With a supple movement Garal slid down from his horse. He strode three paces over to where Sargon stood. Again, Garal’s right arm snapped forward. Sargon raised his own hands to defend himself, but the blow landed so quick, and with such force, that for the second time Sargon tumbled backwards to the ground.

“Utga.” Garal’s voice held no emotion.

Sargon’s rage boiled over. No one had ever struck him like that. Even in his training with Akkad’s soldiers, he’d always had time to prepare himself. But Garal had struck twice without a flicker of expression in his eyes, both times catching Sargon off guard.

Flushed with anger, Sargon leapt to his feet and swung his fist at Garal’s head. The warrior scarcely seemed to move, but he shifted slightly and the fist missed Garal’s head by a few finger widths. This time Garal smacked the palm of his hand against Sargon’s ear as he lunged forward.

Already off balance, the blow sent Sargon tumbling to the ground for the third time. His ear felt as if someone pounded a drum inside his head. His anger and rage hadn’t diminished, but took longer to get to his feet, and this time he swayed as he drew himself up. The blow to his head had affected his balance, and he stood there a moment, trying to prepare himself.

Garal pointed to Sargon’s horse. “Utga.”

Sargon clenched his teeth. Garal had still not raised his voice or even looked angry. Nor had he raised his hand to the long sword that hung from his shoulder. Sargon no longer cared. The anger and frustration he’d endured for the last twenty days swept over him. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Sargon advanced slowly toward his nemesis.

This time Sargon remembered his training, and even his father’s advice. Move carefully, don’t extend yourself or leave yourself off balance. If you’re stronger, close with your enemy and bring him down. If he’s more powerful, keep your distance and strike hard at his head or stomach.

Garal didn’t seem particularly stronger. The two were of much the same size and build. But Sargon remembered the sudden force and power of the blow that had toppled him from his horse. All the same, he was determined to get in close with Garal no matter what, and strike at least one blow. Lowering his head, he feinted to his right, then shifted left, lashing out with his fist for Garal’s impassive face.

The warrior twisted his body in reaction to Sargon’s feint, but when the real attack came, Garal simply ducked underneath the blow. Meeting no resistance and caught with his arm extended, Sargon lurched off balance again. Garal slid his right arm around Sargon’s neck and yanked hard. At the same time, he shoved his right hip into Sargon’s side.

Sargon’s feet left the ground, and he slammed into the earth on his back, his whole body bouncing upon impact with the ground. The force of Garal’s maneuver was as powerful and quick as it was unexpected.

This time, Sargon lay where he’d fallen. His head and neck hurt, and the breath had fled his body. His eyes refused to focus. When his thoughts cleared, Sargon pushed himself up on his elbows.

Garal led Sargon’s mount back to where Sargon lay stretched out on the ground. He dropped the halter beside Sargon’s hand. “Utga.”

Muttering an oath to Marduk that would have offended his mother, Sargon climbed unsteadily to his feet. It took him three tries to climb onto his horse. By the time he had control of his mount, Garal had swung onto his own steed and waited patiently.

“I know, utga, utga,” Sargon muttered grimly. He gripped the mane with his left hand, and touched the halter to his mount’s neck. The animal moved forward.

At least, Sargon decided, the horse had gotten a brief rest, which was more than its rider could say for the delay. Garal set the pace at a canter, no doubt to make it easier on Sargon’s still spinning head.

It was well after midday before Garal raised his arm to signal a halt. Sargon felt exhausted. They had ridden most of the morning and part of the afternoon. Looking around, Sargon saw neither stream or well, nor any place where they might find something to eat.

Garal tied his horse to a bush and took a long look at the entire horizon, no doubt searching for any possible sign of danger. Satisfied, he stretched down on the ground, lying in the shade of the same bush that tethered his animal.

By now Sargon had no strength left to complain. He managed to fasten his horse to the bush, though he knew his father would never have approved of the sloppy tie. Between the effects of the long ride, and his occasional collisions with the earth, Sargon couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief as he dropped to the hard earth.

The stress of the last few days caught up with him, and he slipped into a light sleep. He woke when Garal’s foot shoved into his leg. “Utga.” He pointed to the sun, which Sargon realized had moved to the west and started its descent. The hottest part of the day had passed, but plenty of daylight remained.

At least Sargon knew better than to argue or complain. He pushed his protesting body upright, every muscle complaining at the slightest movement. Garal waited on his own mount, watching Sargon struggle with his horse. Once again, it took two tries before he could get himself astride. Without a word, Garal turned to the west and started off at a fast walk.

They continued westward for the remainder of the day, making only two brief stops to refresh the horses. As dusk arrived, Sargon searched the land ahead of them for any signs of life, a house, a tent, a stream, even a grassy hill. But nothing presented itself, only the same monotonous landscape they had traversed all day. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and his mouth was as dry as sand.

When Garal at last gave the sign to halt, the darkness was nearly complete. He tied his horse to a fallen tree lying on the ground, and this time he inspected Sargon’s tie as well, redoing it to make certain that the knot would stay firm as the animal moved and pulled on it. Satisfied, Garal pointed to the ground.

“Rest.”

Sargon understood that word. He slipped to the earth, and once again could not hold back a groan of relief as he eased the long day’s burden from his stiff muscles. Every part of his body felt sore from the constant riding, and his neck still hurt.

Without any difficulty, Garal sat cross-legged and stared off into the distance. He didn’t appear any different than he looked that morning, not at all tired, hungry, or thirsty.

The two had no water, and of course nothing to eat. If Sargon had a bow or even a sling, he might have tried to bring down something to eat, but exhausted as he was, Sargon knew he wasn’t likely to find, let alone kill, any game. But his thirst had grown all day, and now he could scarcely swallow without forcing himself.

“Water.” He knew that steppes word for that, of course. “Water.”

Garal shrugged, that same annoying gesture Sargon’s father used so often. “No water tonight. Tomorrow. Midday.” The young instructor had to repeat his words several times before his pupil understood.

Sargon’s mouth felt even drier than it had a moment ago. No water until tomorrow! No food, no fire, and now no water. This couldn’t be happening. Sargon had never gone so long without food, let alone water.

And there was nothing he could do about it. Garal carried neither pouch nor water skin with him. If Sargon departed at dawn tomorrow, he would have to ride all day before he returned to the Ur Nammu camp, supposing, of course, that he could find his way back. That assumed that Garal would let him go. More likely, the barbarian would kill him.

With a shock, Sargon realized he had forgotten another one of his father’s teachings. Sargon had failed to notice, let alone memorize, any landmarks that might show him the way back. He knew the general direction, and the sun to guide him, but with only those, he might miss the camp by ten miles, if he couldn’t follow their tracks back to his new home. He should have paid more attention to his surroundings. Instead Sargon had spent his time nursing his bruises and raging at Garal’s back.

“Sleep now. Ride in morning.”

With those few words, Garal stretched out on the ground, shifted his body a few times to settle in, then closed his eyes. It didn’t take long before Garal’s soft snores sounded over the dry camp. His sword lay beside him, and Sargon stared at it. He considered waiting until Garal had reached a deeper sleep, then creeping over the few paces that separated them. With the sword in his hand, one good swing would end his humiliation.

For a time, that idea tempted him. Of course, Garal might wake up, and the sword might prove as useless as Sargon’s fists had earlier. Even if he killed the warrior, he would still have to find his way back, and Chinua would find his son’s body sooner or later. No, the thought of what the barbarians did to those who offended them didn’t appeal to Sargon.

With a muffled curse, he laid down on his side, his back to Garal, and tried to get some sleep. The hard ground pressed against his stiff and sore muscles. Frustrated at every turn of today’s events, and with his throat feeling as dry as a cup of sand, sleep didn’t come easily. When at last Sargon did slip into a fitful sleep, dreams filled with anger at his father for abandoning him haunted what little rest he could manage.