Battle For Empire

30

Scattered clouds passed across the face of the moon and darkened the night sky. Sargon fretted about the slow pace as they moved toward the Ur Nammu refuge. He could dismount and walk faster than the plodding pace set by Yassur, Unegen, and the other Alur Meriki warriors leading the way.

Fashod, however, showed no signs of wanting to hurry. Sargon knew Fashod wanted to make his final approach in the middle of the night, when the guards would be least alert.

Once again Sargon found himself and his fate in the hands of others, as he followed the horse and rider in front of him. Part of him wanted to rush ahead, but another part wished he were back in Akkad, safe in some pleasant ale house. Soon he would be fighting, not for his life, but to save the life of Tashanella. In all his imaginings, Sargon had never once thought about dying to save another.

The moon had reached its highest point and started its descent when Sargon heard Unegen’s whisper down the line.

“This is close enough. Everyone dismount.”

Sargon swung down from his horse, handed the halter to one of Unegen’s men, and checked his weapons. An Alur Meriki warrior approached carrying a water skin, offering one last chance to drink. Sargon realized his mouth was dry, as much from fear as from thirst, and he gulped down as much as he could hold.

He heard Garal and a few others taking a piss, and suddenly the urge to do the same almost overpowered him. Sargon moved a few steps from the horses and relieved himself. It took far longer than usual to empty his bladder. When he finished, he found Fashod waiting for him.

“Follow me,” Fashod said. “Single file.” With those brief words, he started toward the plateau, its jutting height visible in the moonlight and the glow from a Carchemishi watch fire.

Unegen whispered a farewell. “Good hunting.”

Within moments, the Alur Meriki warriors and the horses vanished into the darkness, and Sargon and his companions were alone. No one had to tell Sargon to keep silent. Their sandals made little sound against the hard earth sprinkled with patches of grass that reached his knees.

Nevertheless, Sargon had to watch his footing. A misstep might send him tumbling to the ground, and even worse, might be heard by the enemy guards.

As the small group drew closer to the hilltop, Fashod moved ever slower. Once they had to drop to the ground, motionless, when an enemy patrol loomed up out of the darkness. Sargon counted ten riders, and for a moment thought he and his companions would be discovered.

But these men were concentrating on the ground before them, and only a few bothered to glance about. They passed within fifty paces without noticing the four men hugging the ground.

When they’d ridden off, Fashod moved to Sargon’s side, his face only a hand’s breadth away. “There’s a watch fire ahead. Don’t look at it. Keep your eyes on the ground and watch where you step. I’ll be right behind you. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Sargon didn’t trust his voice to say anything else. Fear had reached into his body and clutched his stomach, but he knew he couldn’t let his companions down.

“Good.” Fashod gripped Sargon’s shoulder. “Just follow orders.”

To Sargon’s surprise, Fashod told Garal to lead the way, while Fashod brought up the rear, walking just behind Sargon. He heard the occasional horse whinny from the distant herd. Other odd sounds carried through the night. Sargon’s heart jumped at every shifting shadow, expecting to be discovered. If the Carchemishi discovered them, Sargon and his companions would be killed, or even worse, captured and tortured.

The Ur Nammu kept moving forward. They covered another two hundred paces, and by now had crossed within the outer lines of the Carchemishi sentries.

Suddenly Garal and Jennat ducked down. Fashod’s hand reached up and pulled Sargon down as well. Sargon heard voices ahead. Straining his eyes, he spotted two men sitting on a rock. Both faced the hilltop. Fashod’s whisper came. “Arrows.”

Garal and Jennat disappeared into the shadows moving toward the unsuspecting guards. Peering over a scraggly bush, Sargon stared at the two sentries about seventy or eighty paces ahead. He heard the men speaking, but couldn’t make out the words.

Time seemed to drag by. Sargon was about to ask Fashod what had gone wrong when he glimpsed two shadows rise up behind the sentinels. Then he heard the snap of bowstrings, followed by a single gasp of pain. Both guards toppled to the ground, struck in the back at close range by the powerful shafts.

Garal and Jennat rushed forward, to make sure their targets were indeed dead or unable to cry out. Sargon turned to Fashod, who had raised himself up, one hand holding Sargon’s arm. The warrior took his time scanning the landscape. The sounds of the guards’ death, which had seemed loud to Sargon, had gone unheard.

“Come.” Fashod moved toward the other warriors, jogging over the ground.

Sargon followed, clutching his lance in his right hand while trying to make as little noise as Fashod. In a moment, they had reached Garal, but Jennat had already moved on ahead. Sargon glanced down at the dead men sprawled at his feet.

He had seen death before, witnessed executions in Akkad’s marketplace, but never violent death. Even in the raid on the Carchemishi camp, he hadn’t got close enough to see men die, their lives ended. Now dead bodies lay within reach, and he could smell their blood, still spilling into the sandy earth.

Fashod and Garal dropped to one knee, and Sargon did the same. No one moved, and the moon seemed to travel faster and faster across the sky. Finally Sargon turned to Fashod. “Why are we waiting?”

“One can see as well as four,” Fashod whispered back.

Sargon gritted his teeth and waited.

Then Jennat loomed up in the darkness to rejoin them. The four huddled together, heads almost touching, to confer.

“There’s a guard post at the base of the hill,” Jennat said. “Eight men. The only way I can see up the slope is right in front of them.”

“Are you sure we can’t go around?” Fashod’s voice remained calm.

“I don’t think so,” Jennat whispered. “There are steep rocks all around the slope, loose rocks everywhere. It’s likely the best approach, since the guards are there. Unless you want to search for another way up the slope.”

“No, the two dead sentries might be discovered at any moment.” Fashod took this setback in stride. “Damn. We’ll have to kill them. We can’t take the time to find another way.”

Sargon glanced toward the plateau, looming up from the earth. He had no idea how steep the slope might be, or even if it could be climbed in the dark. Shadows shifted and moved, and some of that movement came from Carchemishi sentries. He couldn’t tell if any were moving in this direction.

“The moment we start up the slope,” Jennat said, “they’ll hear us. We’ll be easy targets.”

“All the more reason to go through them,” Fashod whispered. “If they’re all dead, they won’t be able to stop us. It will take some time before more soldiers can reach this place.”

Fashod raised his head and surveyed the enemy post once again. When he ducked down, he unslung the lance from his shoulder.

“Remember, if anyone is wounded and can’t make the climb, he’ll have to fend for himself. Garal and Jennat, target your shafts at the guards starting from the left. Sargon and I will use our lances on the two on the right. Wait for us to throw. As soon as the way is clear, start climbing.”

Sargon’s heart beat faster, and wondered if the others could hear it. His mouth had gone dry again, and he had to force himself to swallow. In moments he would be fighting for his life. Nor could he expect help from any of the others.

Every man knew what needed to be done — at least one of them had to get to the top of the hill and give Subutai the message that the Alur Meriki were coming. If Sargon faltered or fell wounded, he would be left behind.

Fashod moved closer to Sargon, his mouth only a hand’s breath from Sargon’s ear. “Take the one on the rightmost side, Sargon,” Fashod ordered. “If your lance doesn’t bring him down, keep moving forward and use your sword. They won’t be expecting an attack from behind. Just get past him and start up the slope. Don’t wait for anyone. I’ll tell you when to throw. Understand?”

Sargon had a handful of questions, but found himself nodding agreement. His mouth felt dry, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“The moment we throw our lances,” Fashod whispered, this time to Garal and Jennat, “loose your arrows, and move forward. Keep shooting until they’re all dead.” Fashod grasped Sargon by the arm. “Let’s go.”

Sargon loosened the cord that held the lance over his shoulder. He grasped the weapon in his right hand, making sure he held it firmly by the grip. His hand started to sweat, and he rubbed it hard against his tunic, grateful that no one could see the gesture in the dark. He wondered if the others noticed his fear.

Fashod took the lead, moving forward and creeping low toward the sentries. The others fanned out on his left side. Sargon remembered Garal’s teachings, and he kept his eyes on the ground before him. Now was not the time to trip and sprawl on his face, alerting half the enemy camp. Sargon recalled another reason to keep his gaze down. At night the whites of a man’s eyes could be seen at a distance.

The eight sentries were scattered about, most sitting on the ground, a few looking up the slope. One lay stretched out, taking his ease. Two or three talked among themselves, no doubt trying to stay awake. They obviously felt safe enough. No fighters from the hilltop could come down without making plenty of noise.

The distance between Sargon and his target closed. Fifty paces, then forty. Easy distance for the bows, but still too long for a flung lance. Sargon couldn’t believe they hadn’t been seen or heard yet. Thirty paces. By now he could see the one he had to kill. The unsuspecting man sat on a rock, facing the slope, and talking with his companion.

Fashod slowed his pace even more. Sargon’s heart pounded in his chest, so loud that he felt certain the guards could hear it. Twenty paces, then fifteen. His right hand, again damp with sweat, gripped the lance. Ten paces. The guards surely heard their approach by now. Then Fashod rose from his crouch and Sargon knew the time had come. Fashod drew back his arm. Sargon, too, prepared to throw.

“Look out!”

The warning boomed out, before Fashod could hurl the lance. The alarm came from Sargon’s right and echoed off the slope. A soldier, or perhaps a watch commander making his rounds, had practically strolled up on Sargon and his friends.

Fashod never hesitated. Ignoring the man who gave the alarm, Fashod threw the lance and charged forward. Bowstrings twanged. Sargon, too, hurled his lance at his original target, glimpsing it as it flew through the night. As he rushed forward, he saw that neither his lance nor Fashod’s had struck a killing blow.

Both targets reacted swiftly. Fashod’s man had risen and turned in the same moment. The lance tore through the man’s left arm, wrenching a cry from his lips. Sargon’s throw missed completely, either from a poor aim or because the man had whirled around.

The night erupted in shouts, drowned out by the frightening sounds of the steppes warriors war cries as the Ur Nammu voiced their war cries. Fashod hurtled across the distance, and his sword struck down the wounded man before he could draw a weapon.

Sargon, two steps behind, ripped his sword from its scabbard and flung himself at his foe.

The guard Sargon had missed had taken a step toward Fashod, but now he turned, sword in hand, to meet Sargon’s attack. Sargon, swinging the sword with all his strength, felt the impact of the stroke up his arm as bronze met bronze, his first experience with such a shock.

The impact forced his foe back a half step. Sargon never stopped his forward motion, lowering his shoulder and driving it into the man’s chest. The guard, despite his greater bulk, went sprawling, his sword flailing.

Sargon turned to move beside Fashod, hotly engaged with another warrior. The clash of bronze nearly masked the sound of a sandal crunching on the loose stones. The soldier who’d given the alarm had charged forward to join the fray. He’d closed the distance in a few heart beats, and now he lunged forward, his sword aimed at Sargon’s chest.

Only Sargon’s quickness saved him from the well aimed stroke. He twisted aside from the ferocious thrust that brushed past his ribs. This attacker knew his trade. He kept moving forward and his shoulder slammed into Sargon, knocking him back and almost off his feet.

Sargon knew better than to rise up. Instead he crouched low, and dodged an overhand swing. He feinted with a sweeping cut. Then, still close to the ground, he lunged forward, driving the sword’s tip beneath the man’s attempt to parry, and up into his belly.

Sargon felt his blade bite deep into the man, who cried out in as much surprise as pain. His sword fell from his fingers and clanked against the rocky ground. Hot blood spurted along Sargon’s arm, as he jerked the blade back. His grip nearly came loose, and he had to tighten his fist and wrench the blade free.

“Run!” Fashod had finished his man, and now grabbed Sargon by the shoulder and shoved him toward the slope.

Stumbling into a run, Sargon raced for the hill, following Fashod’s steps. They raced across the forty paces or so to reach the slope. Dimly he heard someone scrambling and clawing up the slope, so he knew that at least one of his companions had also broken through. Then Sargon reached the base of the plateau and started up.

An arrow dug into the earth beside Sargon’s hand, as he gripped a rock to help his ascent. Another clattered off a stone. The sword in his right hand hampered his ascent, but he didn’t dare take the time to sheath it, nor did he intend to drop it.

More shafts hummed through the darkness, burying themselves into the cliff or snapping against the rock. Meanwhile the tumult from the now fully aroused main camp mixed with the shouts and curses of the men below.

Sargon heard another arrow hiss over his head. He kept scrambling up the steep hill, slipping and sliding back down every few steps. His shoulders twitched with anticipation, as if his body could sense the oncoming missile that would end Sargon’s life.

The sentries, however, had yet to recover from their surprise. Only two had survived Fashod’s assault, though others had rushed over to join them. These new arrivals had to string their bows, and now they shot their arrows uphill and into the darkness, aiming at the dim shadows already climbing out of range.

Ignoring the chaos below, Sargon kept moving. Another arrow struck the earth a pace above him. A large boulder, half buried in the hill, provided some shelter. He ducked behind it, to discover that he was the last to arrive.

Fashod grunted as he pulled Sargon to safety. “Help Jennat. He’s injured. Start up the hill when I tell you. Garal and I will send a few shafts down the slope to cover you.”

Another arrow struck the boulder and glanced off. Fashod already had Jennat’s bow in hand. Sargon moved beside the wounded man. An arrow protruded from his left leg.

“Damn the luck,” the warrior said. “It stings like a scorpion bite.”

“Go!” Fashod gave the order at the same time he leaned out from the boulder and loosed a shaft. “Hurry!”

Sargon had time for a brief glance upward. Their first breathless dash had carried them more than half way. Shoving his bloody sword into its scabbard, Sargon grasped Jennat by the waist. They started moving. The first few steps were the hardest, but they soon found a slant that led toward the crest.

They crawled on hands and knees, clinging to the rocky outcrops to keep from sliding back down, Sargon pushing and shoving to help Jennat along, both gasping for breath. Behind them, Sargon heard Fashod and Garal working their bows, shooting shafts as fast as they could fit them to the string.

Shouts of confusion still erupted from the base of the hill. Sargon guessed that every one of Garal’s shafts had found a mark. Shooting uphill at night was more difficult than shooting downwards. In moments the enemy archers, who had rushed to the base of the hill, scattered, moving away into the darkness.

Sargon heard scrambling sounds below him. Fashod and Garal had started climbing, too. Either they had exhausted their supply of arrows, or they decided they couldn’t remain any longer. Sargon and Jennat kept moving, ignoring everything behind them. A stone rattled down the hill. He looked up and saw the blur of faces above him, only a few paces away.

Hands reached out of the darkness and grabbed Jennat from Sargon’s grasp. Another powerful grip seized Sargon’s left wrist and yanked him upward. The slope grew steeper for the last few steps, and Sargon, already gulping air into his lungs as fast as he could, thanked the gods for the help.

The twang of bowstrings sounded over his head. Subutai’s warriors were sending shafts down into the darkness. Suddenly the slope leveled. Sargon stumbled forward and fell flat on the ground. All he could think of was that he was still alive, and he’d reached the top. When his heart finally slowed, he pushed himself to his knees.

“Come. We’re still within range of their arrows.”

Sargon didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter. Rising to his feet, he found his legs trembling, either from weakness or fear. He stumbled after his guide, following him away from danger. He smelled and heard horses, and saw a small campfire burning up ahead. Sargon slipped to the ground a few steps from the fire, still struggling to catch his breath. This time he stayed where he had fallen.

No one paid him any attention. Warriors moved about, and Sargon saw some gathering near the fire. He heard Fashod’s voice answering questions in rapid bursts of words that Sargon, in his exhausted condition, couldn’t understand. Even so, he knew what Fashod must be saying. Telling Subutai or the other leaders that they had reached the Alur Meriki.

Gazing down at his hands, Sargon saw they still shook, either from the mad scramble up the hill, or because he had just killed his first man. Blood mixed with dirt covered his right arm. He tried to brush it off, but the touch of the slippery fluid made him want to retch.

He could still feel the way the sharp blade slid effortlessly inside the body of the guard, could hear the small gasp of pain and surprise as the Carchemishi soldier felt the shock of the cold bronze. Sargon wondered if the man had time to realize he’d taken a death blow.

Everything had happened so quickly. In all his practice sessions with Garal or even those back in Akkad, there was always time to prepare, to plan the attack, even a chance to recover from a mistake. Sargon hadn’t had time either to think or be afraid. And now, after the fight had ended, he didn’t know what he felt.

Someone moved in front of him, blocking the faint light of the fire. Wearily, he lifted his head, and saw Tashanella standing there. The colorful dress she’d worn in the camp the last night he’d seen her was gone, replaced by the patched and faded garment she’d worn when he first noticed her.

“Are you wounded?” She dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands went to his shoulders, but gently, as if afraid she might hurt him.

He had to think for a moment. Looking down, he saw that part of his tunic was splattered with blood. “No, I’m fine. It’s not my blood. I. . I killed a man.” His hand fumbled for his sword, and he realized that the hilt and top of the scabbard were slippery with blood. He shivered at the touch. Sargon had not had time to clean the blade before shoving it into its scabbard.

“I should clean my sword.” His voice sounded odd in his ears, as if someone else had spoken.

Sargon knew no warrior should ever return an unclean blade to its scabbard. When the blood dried, it would grip the blade and make it difficult to draw.

“Yes, of course.” Despite her youth, Tashanella recognized the signs of a man struggling to comprehend what had just befallen him, his mind shocked into near paralysis. “Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

Without waiting for acceptance, Tashanella reached down and unbuckled his belt. She withdrew the weapon from his waist. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He nodded, but she had already turned and disappeared into the darkness. Sargon glanced around. Even in the middle of the night, the hilltop thronged with people. Every member of the Ur Nammu clan, more than a thousand men, women, and children, filled the hilltop.

Their horses, too, almost six hundred, took up whatever space remained. In such crowded and unsanitary conditions, not many would be able to sleep.

Despite the press of people, no one paid Sargon the slightest interest. He might as well have stayed with the Alur Meriki. Again his thoughts returned to the dead man at the bottom of the hill, and he wondered if Eskkar had felt any such feelings of remorse when he killed his first man.

That brought up another question. Just how many men had his father killed by his own hand? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? Sargon doubted Eskkar had any idea of the number.

A few months ago, in the safety of Akkad’s ale houses, Sargon and his friends had scoffed at the thought of fighting or killing. Those were tasks for ignorant men who made war their trade, not princes of the city with gold enough to hire as many guards as they needed.

Safe and secure behind their wealth and power, Sargon and his friends had sipped their wine and laughed at men like his father, Hathor, and the others. Barbarians like the Ur Nammu were beneath their contempt. Sargon remembered the certainty with which he’d dismissed such ideas.

Instead, Eskkar had turned his son’s world upside down. Now Sargon needed to fight to stay alive. Once again he wished he had paid more attention to all the things his father and his military advisors had sought to teach Sargon. Garal’s teachings had conditioned him and given him the basic skills. Nonetheless, Sargon knew he’d been lucky to kill his man, more experienced and with a powerful arm.

Sargon thought of the stroke that had brushed past his stomach and shivered. Only his quickness had saved his life. And now, though Sargon and the others had succeeded in reaching their goal, this hilltop might still be the place of his death.

“Here, drink this.” Tashanella slipped to the ground beside him, and handed him a cup.

Lost in thought, Sargon hadn’t noticed her return. He had to use both hands to take the cup from her, and despite his efforts, his hands shook. The smell of raw wine reached his nostrils, and he took a sip of the liquid. It felt rough to his mouth, but he drank it down. “I didn’t think there would be any wine in the camp.”

“Just the one skin. My mother carried it for Subutai.”

Now he was stealing Subutai’s wine. Sargon laughed, the discordant sound attracting, for the first time, the attention of those nearby. Nevertheless, Sargon emptied the cup. She took it from his hand and set it aside. A damp rag appeared, and Tashanella scrubbed the blood from his face and arm. “There’s no water to clean your tunic, and nothing else to wear. You’ll have to keep it.”

Ignoring her ministrations, Sargon put his arms around her and pulled her close. For a moment he just held her tight against him, inhaling the scent of her hair. He didn’t know how long he held her, but slowly the fear and trembling passed from his body. Tashanella was real, and she was holding him. Somehow Sargon knew she understood. Thoughts of death and blood gradually eased from his mind.

“Tashanella, you’re the reason I came back. Otherwise, I might have just slipped away. I know. .”

“If you hadn’t come back, I would have come looking for you.” She raised her lips to his, and they shared a kiss that began with gentleness and ended with passion.

He pulled her down beside him, and buried his face in her throat. Sargon couldn’t control the occasional tremble that passed through his limbs. She stroked his hair, and murmured soothing words. Sargon had seen his mother touch his father the same way.

After awhile, his heart slowed, and his mind regained control of his body. Sargon remembered why he had returned, and what still needed to be done.

“You heard the Alur Meriki are coming?”

“Yes, I was at my father’s tent when Fashod brought the news. He said you convinced them to help us. That’s all I heard before I came looking for you.”

He told her the events at the Council Meeting, and of Chief Bekka’s need for a victory. “Though they may not come. Bekka may have changed his mind, or others could have forced him to abandon the idea of fighting the Carchemishi. Or he may just arrive too late to help us.”

“Then all that matters is that you have done your best. My father, all the Ur Nammu will owe you a great debt.”

“We still may not get out of this alive.”

“Then we will die together. I will have no other life without you, Sargon of Akkad. But I feel in my heart that you have yet much to accomplish. I do not think this will be our end.”

“Then we’ll face whatever comes. Together.”

A young boy called out Tashanella’s name, searching for her in the crowd.

She glanced around. “We’re over here.”

The boy trotted over, his teeth glistening in the faint light.

“Here it is.” The boy handed Tashanella Sargon’s sword and belt. “I sharpened it. Father said to bring him.”

Sargon recognized the boy as one of Tashanella’s younger brothers. He took the weapon from Tashanella and drew the blade half way from the scabbard. The bronze hilt and blade had been cleansed of blood, and the edge sharpened and polished. Sargon found the spot where the first guard had parried the blade. The deep nick remained, but some of it had been smoothed out.

“We will go to my father,” Tashanella said. “Then we’ll find a place for ourselves, to spend the night.”

Sargon stood and belted the sword around his waist. “Then let’s hurry. The sooner we finish with your father, the sooner we can be together.” Sargon held her for a moment, then took her hand, holding it tight. Alone in each other’s company, they followed the young boy back to where Subutai waited.