Battle For Empire

7

Hathor slid down from his horse, patted the animal’s neck, and stepped into the stream. The clear water, fresh from the mountains, chilled his feet, and he stood in it only long enough to quench his thirst, scooping handful after handful to his mouth. Around him, all the men and horses gulped the cold water, cleansing their dry mouths, tossing it over their faces and chests, and filling their bellies. Some in their exuberance splashed water on one another. The refreshing water tasted even sweeter after driving the barbarians out of their path.

The horses attended to, Hathor’s riders guided their animals away from the fast flowing water. They had to drink slowly, to ensure that they did not swallow too much too fast. The men would bring their mounts back later for a second chance to satisfy their thirst.

Lifting his gaze, Hathor studied the barbarians who had retreated reluctantly before him. Just over half a mile away another hill rose up to the east. The enemy fighters had ridden up the slope that ridged the sky. From there, they stared down at the Akkadians. A few still brandished their bows or lances, while other expressed their anger by shouting what must be curses in his direction. If what Eskkar said were true, these fighters hated to retreat, especially after a challenge by those they called dirt eaters.

They could shake their fists and wave their weapons as much as they wanted. All that mattered was that Hathor’s men had the stream, and if anyone wanted a drink of water, they would pay for it with their blood.

The brief encounter between the two forces had taken only moments. The flight of arrows launched by the barbarians had wounded two horses, and Hathor doubted the shafts of his own riders had done any better, especially shooting uphill, always a difficult shot.

His men might bask in the glow of their small victory, but Hathor needed to hold this position until Eskkar and the rest of the Akkadians arrived. Handing his horse over to one of his men, Hathor paced the length of the stream. From its origin in the northern cliff wall, the Khenmet flowed in a nearly straight line for almost four hundred paces before it disappeared into another maze of impenetrable rocks and steep, gray crags.

He knew the stream travelled underground for more than two miles before it emerged from a cleft in the rocks as a waterfall, its clear waters then plunging several hundred paces to a rock-filled canyon below. From there the water flowed south, slicing its way through more cliffs and crags, and still inaccessible to a horse or wagon.

And while a man might risk his neck and clamber down the canyon’s walls to slack his thirst, by the time he regained the land above, he’d be as thirsty as when he started.

Even worse for the barbarians, the caravan of wagons and livestock would have to be left behind, as the terrain to the south was far too rough. If the Alur Meriki did not cross the stream here, they would be forced to travel nine or ten miles over treacherous cliffs and rocky ground to the south before the stream reemerged and gave them a place to access the water.

But those ten miles would take several days to traverse, and leave them no better off than they were now. They would face another four or five days of rough travel just to get back to the trail, leaving them still short of water for the rest of their descent from the mountains. No, the Alur Meriki would water their herds and ford here, or turn back toward the east and retrace their path.

Hathor let his eyes sweep the terrain. He’d been here before with Eskkar, but that was more than a year ago, when Eskkar first hatched the idea of an ambush. With a handful of riders, they spent almost twenty days exploring the pass and hills that marked the likely Alur Meriki migration trail, until they found this place. Hathor remembered how Eskkar’s eyes had widened in satisfaction at the find.

“A good place to give battle,” Eskkar had said. They remained at the Khenmet most of a day studying the land before moving on to the east. Only when they had discovered all the possible watering places within four or five days ride did a satisfied Eskkar and his men turn their horses’ heads toward Akkad.

As soon as he and Hathor returned, they met with Ismenne the Map Maker. From their descriptions, she sketched out the all the land from Aratta to the Khenmet, laying out the routes and the Alur Meriki migration path. Once completed, the planning for this expedition had begun.

Hathor took another look at the stream, less than forty paces wide. The water splashed noisily from a cleft between two large rock formations, both tall and formidable. While not particularly wide or deep — Hathor guessed that he could throw a stone from one bank to the other — it gave the Akkadians another advantage besides a place to quench their thirst. But for a horse charging through the chilly waters, the current would slow both horse and rider, and make them an easy target for his archers.

Draelin, still leading his horse, strode over to stand by his commander. “Where do you want the men?”

Hathor turned away from studying the stream to gaze at the north rock wall rising above him. “I want the men closest to the cliffs. Have them form a defensive line starting from there.”

“We don’t have enough men to hold the length of the stream.”

“I know, but if they overrun us, we can keep our backs to the cliff, and our archers can control the crossing.”

It wasn’t much of a defensive plan, but it would have to do. “Picket the horses in the little hollow in the cliff,” Hathor ordered. “That should give most of them some protection from the barbarian arrows.”

“We’re going to fight on foot?” Draelin sounded dubious at the idea.

“Oh, yes, at least until Eskkar gets here.” Hathor lifted his gaze once more toward the enemy hilltop. “If the barbarians arrive in force, they’ll overwhelm us if we try to match them on horseback.”

“I’ll settle the men in,” Draelin said, his eyes already searching the ground for the best possible fighting position.

“And see if we’ve got anyone who knows how to climb,” Hathor said. “Eskkar claimed a fit man could scale that cliff. A pair of eyes up there would be useful.”

Draelin’s mouth opened as he stared up at the seemingly sheer cliff. “I’ll ask. Maybe some fool will volunteer, but don’t expect me to try it. I’d just fall and break my neck.”

Hathor laughed. “I wouldn’t attempt it either. But Eskkar will have a few slingers with him who can do it, I’m sure. Wait until morning before you ask anyone to try. It’ll soon be too dark to see anything.” He turned his gaze back across the stream to where the Alur Meriki watched. “I wonder what they’re thinking about?”

“Nothing good for us,” Draelin said. “I just hope Eskkar gets here by tomorrow.”

“If he doesn’t, we’re all going to be dead.”

Neither man worried about that. The earth would have to open up and swallow Eskkar and his men before he let anything stop his march to this place.

The two commanders trudged back to where their men waited, holding the halters of their mounts.

“Subcommanders! Everyone!” Draelin’s voice echoed against the cliff. “Every tenth man, collect the horses and move them into that cleft. The rest of you, form a line twenty paces from the stream, every man a step apart. Once you’ve taken your position, put down your bows, and we’ll all start carrying rocks from the stream. I want to scatter a layer of rocks between us and the stream, to slow down any charging horsemen. Everyone, keep your swords with you at all times.”

Hathor nodded approval. Plenty of work still remained to be done. To make matters worse, there would be no fire, as the bare ground this close to the mountains held little in the way of trees or bushes. With the coming darkness, the Alur Meriki might try to attack, or even attempt to steal or stampede the horses. The tired Akkadians would get little sleep tonight.

At midmorning the next day, Bekka returned to the hilltop once again and stared down at the invaders. They kept busy, and except for a line of sentries, ignored the hill to their east. Bekka, meanwhile, cursed the slow gathering of his fighters.

The number of warriors under his command had grown slowly since yesterday, as the men he had dispatched to collect the Alur Meriki raiding parties had rejoined his force. At least twenty members of his clan had come back, and another fifteen or so had not yet reported. At last count, Bekka had close to seventy fighting men under his command.

The dirt eaters remained in their protective half-ring, with their horses bunched up in the gully behind them. Every man kept his bow and weapons at hand, and Bekka had no doubt they knew how to use them.

A shout made him turn to the east. He saw Kushi galloping his horse down the adjoining hill, across the flat space, then scrambling up the slope to join his clan chief.

“Chief Bekka,” Kushi began, then had to catch his breath. “Chief Chulum and his warriors are here.”

Bekka could not hold back a brief frown. He’d known that Chulum and the warriors of his Serpent Clan rode closest to his position, but with a little luck it might have been one of the other chiefs who arrived first. Chulum, five years older than Bekka, had risen to command of the Serpent Clan only five or six years ago, and he’d done it by sheer strength of will. No man questioned his fighting skill or courage, but he’d yet to prove himself as a wise leader.

His name, Chulum, meant “stone,” and the members of his clan muttered among themselves, though not when Chulum might overhear, that he’d been aptly named.

“How many riders with him?”

“All of his clan, I think,” Kushi said. “Ninety, perhaps a few more.”

Bekka gritted his teeth at the news.

The sound of hoof beats echoed over the hills, and Bekka saw a mass of riders cresting the hill behind him. He watched as riders climbed over the crest and began the descent. It was a good way to count them. When the last man started down, Bekka’s count reached ninety-four.

Chulum, at the head of his force, rode straight toward Bekka.

Bekka resigned himself to the coming encounter, knowing there would be trouble. The situation was awkward. As the leader of warriors in this part of the countryside, Bekka should take command. But being the older chief and with a superior number of warriors, Chulum would expect to give the orders.

Once again, Bekka swore under his breath at the bad luck that dogged his steps. Then he had time only to get control of his emotions as Chulum rode up to his position.

“Chief Bekka.” Chulum gave the merest nod to acknowledge Bekka as an equal.

“Chief Chulum.” Bekka returned the nod with as much enthusiasm. “It is good to see you.”

Taller and broader than Bekka, Chulum had thick arms that could strangle an ox. He carried no bow, but had two lances slung over his right shoulder. “These are the dirt eaters in our path?” He had already turned his attention to the narrow valley below.

“I think they are Akkadians, probably sent by the traitor Eskkar. They are. .”

“You should have stopped them before they reached the stream.”

Bekka ignored the insult. “They have a hundred men and. .”

“Dirt eaters.” Chulum cut him off. “It matters not. With your men and mine, we have more than enough to finish them.”

Bekka kept his voice under control. “I think we should wait. More warriors are on their way. And I’ve sent riders to Thutmose-sin.”

Perhaps the mention of the Great Chief’s name would restrain Chulum’s eagerness. “Meanwhile, the invaders have no place to go.”

Chulum shook his head. “Thutmose-sin is not here, may not be here for days. Besides, my men need the water. We rode hard when we got your message.” He turned to his commanders, waiting in silence behind their leader, and listening to every word of the exchange. “Prepare the men to attack.”

Orders were bellowed, drowning out Bekka’s reply. Chulum’s men readied weapons and started forming a battle line. Some of Bekka’s own men, caught up in the excitement, joined in. Bekka attempted to order his own men to hold fast, but already the shouts of the warriors preparing for battle drowned out his efforts. Without challenging Chulum, Bekka could not stop him. Swearing again, Bekka resigned himself to the attack.

Chulum never looked back. He kicked his horse into position in the front of the line even before all of Bekka’s warriors formed up. Bekka tried to reach Chulum’s side, but too many riders were jostling about, blocking the way. The horses caught their riders’ excitement, and added their whinnies and snorts to the din.

Warriors gulped the last of their water and readied their weapons. Meanwhile, Chulum unslung his two lances and held them up, one in each hand. A loud roar went up from his men and echoed out over the valley, as bows and lances were thrust upwards.

“Warriors! Destroy the dirt eaters! Attack!”

Bekka swore again, a mighty oath that should have made the gods strike Chulum down from his horse. Nevertheless, Bekka drew his sword and put his heels to his horse’s flanks. Nothing could stop Chulum’s warriors now, and all Bekka could do was join in the fight and hope for the best.

“Not wasting any time, are they.” Hathor studied the movements on the hilltop.

“The sooner they come, the less time our men will have to worry.” Draelin nocked an arrow to his bowstring. “Too bad I don’t have my war bow. It’s not doing much good hanging over my door in Akkad.”

Hathor shook his head at Draelin’s eagerness. The smaller cavalry bows had shorter range and less stopping power. Still, at close range, their bronze tips would take a man down. Hathor unslung the lance that had chaffed his shoulder for the last eight days, then loosened his sword in its scabbard.

His men were drawn up about twenty paces from the stream, in a half moon formation, with the opening facing the northern cliff. The horses remained in the gully. Ten of the strongest soldiers attended to them, each man responsible for hanging on to ten horses.

The animals, tethered together, would need to be restrained once the attack began, and more than a few were going to be struck by arrows. No matter how many wounded animals panicked or bolted, the rest of the horses had to be held fast. If they all broke loose or stampeded, Hathor’s men would be left on foot.

The Egyptian didn’t waste any words exhorting his men. They understood the need to hold the stream. Besides, if they tried to retreat, the barbarians would cut them to pieces.

The Akkadians settled into their positions. Each man knelt on the ground, on one knee, with his two quivers of arrows before him. The smaller bows, designed to be used from horseback, could still be used effectively in that position. Kneeling made every bowman a smaller target, with each archer separated from his companions by a good pace on either side. That allowed enough room to work the bow properly, and swing it from side to side if necessary.

Hathor moved to the center of the line, where the brunt of the attack would likely fall. Draelin stood thirty paces to the right, in the more exposed position. The barbarians would try to envelop their enemy on the south side and break through to the horses. Hathor had given Draelin command of the men. As an experienced archer, he would know when to loose the first volley.

A din of noise erupted from the enemy’s position and floated over the stream. To Hathor, it sounded as if every barbarian had given voice to his war cry. Then the warriors started down the hill. Hoof beats added to the fury of sound that echoed off the cliffs and washed over the Akkadians. As soon as the barbarians reached the base of the hill, they put their horses to a full gallop.

As he watched their progress, Hathor made a rough count of their number. He grunted in satisfaction. They didn’t have enough men to break his position.

“Ready arrows!” Draelin’s bellow, too, boomed out against the cliff behind him, but every man heard the order.

Already the first few barbarian shafts flew into the air, arching upwards. Hathor didn’t bother to try and watch their approach. He’d seen men dodge one shaft only to be struck down by another. Best to stand in one place and cover his chest and neck with the small shield he’d carried all the way from Akkad. And hope the gods of war stood by your side to brush each deadly shaft away.

“Shoot!” Draelin’s command started the defense.

The Akkadian bowstrings slapped against the leather arm protectors, as almost ninety shafts flew into the air, aiming for a point about eighty paces on the far side of the stream. They flew high, then arched down, arriving just as the front line of warriors reached the same patch of ground.

Hathor saw a few riders go down, but only a few. The first of the barbarian arrows landed, taking their toll on the Akkadians. Draelin kept shouting orders, but the men had little need for direction. They whipped shaft to string, bent the bow to their ears, and let fly with a speed that the barbarians, trying to shoot from the back of a moving horse, couldn’t match. Hathor guessed his men were loosing at least three shafts for every two from the Alur Meriki.

By now the Akkadian shafts were held level with the ground. The barbarians, with several gaps in their line, reached the stream with a rush. Mounted, they presented a large target for every Akkadian archer, as a strike to the horse was almost as effective as a killing shaft in a man’s chest. Both usually brought the rider down, possibly to be trampled by those behind him, or just stunned by the hard ground.

A huge water spray flew up into the air, as the galloping horses plunged into the stream. For a moment the flying water almost hid the enemy horses as if behind a protective curtain. The Akkadians never ceased loosing their arrows. Hathor heard the scream of animals in pain, and the shouts and war cries of the enemy, but the quick flowing water slowed the horsemen despite their best efforts to urge their animals across.

Horses staggered and plunged to their knees. A few crashed sideways into the water, the impact of their bodies knocking more spray into the air. Others rose up on hind legs, whinnying in pain. Barbarian riders, dead or wounded, splashed into the water.

Other riders could not control their wounded mounts. Many horses lost their footing on the wet and treacherous rocks that formed the bed of the stream, and tossed their riders into the cold water. By now every Akkadian had emptied one quiver and started on the second.

The charge faltered, then stopped in midstream. To continue forward invited a handful of arrows in the chest. The chaos in the water turned it into a killing zone.

For a few moments, the attackers struggled to hold their position, exchanging shafts with the Akkadians, but in the stream, the horsemen couldn’t guide their horses and shoot at the same time. The moment any rider urged his horse forward, arrows hummed through the air to strike at man and beast. Soon wounded or daunted riders whirled their mounts around, scrambling back toward the bank, desperate to escape the deadly flights of arrows launched at them from close range.

Hathor noticed one rider in the second rank, waving his sword and urging his men onward. Hathor stepped back, extended his right arm to the rear, and with a single long stride hurled the lance toward the middle of the stream, giving it just enough arc to clear the first rank of enemy fighters.

The lance struck the rider’s mount at the base of the neck, and the animal screamed in pain at the death blow. The beast stumbled and staggered to its knees, and the rider disappeared into the frothing water. The killing shafts continued to fly. The rest of the attackers turned back, hanging low over the necks of their horses as they fled for the safety of the far side of the stream.

Many warriors had lost their mounts. Now they scrambled on foot, stumbling over the loose stones that bordered the bank. Hathor saw a good number of those running had taken wounds, Akkadian shafts protruding from arms and legs.

Hathor shifted his attention to Draelin. Only on the southern part of the stream, away from the Akkadian position, had a number of the barbarians managed to cross. A few of them still exchanged arrows with the Akkadians. As more of Draelin’s men turned to meet this threat, and with the main force stopped by the water, those barbarian warriors soon whirled their horses and raced back across the stream.

The Akkadians jeered them on, and laughter rose up at their frantic retreat.

“Keep shooting, damn you!” Draelin’s bellow rose up over the excited shouts of his men.

Hathor strode over to his second in command, still launching shaft after shaft at the fleeing warriors. Only when his arrows could no long reach the retreating barbarians did Draelin halt his efforts.

“Well done, Draelin.” Hathor clapped him on the back. He raised his voice and made sure every man in his command could hear. “Well done, Akkadians!”

A ragged cheer answered. Draelin could only nod, his chest rising and falling as he gulped air into his chest.

Both men glanced around. Now it was time to take stock of their own losses.

“I doubt they will be back any time soon,” Hathor said, “but make sure the men are ready.”

“Recover your arrows!” Draelin bellowed the order, and the cry went up and down the line, as the Akkadians surged into the water, looking for the dead and wounded, to pluck the shafts from their bodies. The barbarian arrows, too, would be scooped up and used against their former owners.

Afterwards, while Draelin regrouped his men, Hathor inspected the little encampment. He paced up and down the line, praising the men and their efforts, all the while counting the dead and wounded. The barbarians had inflicted plenty of damage, though not as great as he had expected. Nine men lay dead or dying, and another sixteen had taken wounds.

All the injured were carried to the space just outside the gully that sheltered the men’s mounts. Those who could would relieve the ten able bodied soldiers who’d tended the horses. The dead bodies were carried to the rear, to be buried later, when time and events permitted.

A quick check of the horses revealed that only three had been struck by arrows. One of the handlers had taken a shaft in his arm. The horses remained skittish, pawing the ground or whinnying nervously. The scent of blood hanging in the air and the excited chatter of the men kept them from calming down.

The barbarians had fared much worse. Hathor’s soldiers were already across the stream, many for the second time, collecting weapons and loot, and killing any wounded barbarians still alive. Two men, on Draelin’s orders, took a count of the enemy dead.

The Akkadians didn’t remain on the far bank long. Soon arrows arced down toward them, as angry Alur Meriki fighters let fly from the base of the hill. But almost all the shafts fell short, the distance too far for the small size bows. The laughing soldiers splashed their way back across the stream, all of them clutching their new possessions.

When Draelin trotted over to where Hathor stood, he had a grin on his face. “Thirty four dead, and maybe another ten or fifteen washed down the stream. Plus about forty horses. They’ll think twice before they try that again.”

“Probably another thirty wounded, maybe more.” Hathor had fought in many battles. Usually the number of dead equaled the number of wounded. Ninety Akkadian archers had loosed at least one quiver, twenty shafts, into the enemy’s ranks. The more proficient archers had shot another five or six. All together, at least two hundred and fifty arrows had struck the mass of barbarian warriors.

The smaller shafts might not be as deadly, but a wounded enemy was not likely to be back in action any time soon. A fighter weakened by loss of blood, or in too much pain to control his horse, tended to be less effective. Dead or wounded, the Akkadians had taken a lot of the barbarians out of the fight. And while the loss of so many horses might not mean much to the barbarians with their large herds, those mounts would still need to be replaced.

“I’ve ordered the men to distribute all the remaining arrows equally. We may need every shaft.” Draelin gestured toward the still celebrating fighters. “Then I’ll put them back to work carrying rocks. That should calm them down.”

Hathor laughed. The men would be swearing at him soon enough. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “If Eskkar and the rest of the men don’t get here before the full horde of the barbarians arrive, we’ll need more than rocks and arrows.”

Up on the hill, Bekka sat on a stone and stared down at the dead and dying below. Another of his men, skilled in the ways of the healer, knelt on the ground beside him. He finished bandaging his leader’s wounds with the damp shreds of Bekka’s own tunic.

Bekka’s horse had been killed beneath him by a flung lance, and the plunge into the chilled water had stunned him. Or some horse had kicked him in the head. Only the courage of one of his clan brothers had saved him. The man had dragged his dazed commander onto the back of his horse, turned around, and raced for safety.

Both of them had taken wounds in the flight. Bekka, clinging to the man’s back, had taken two arrows, one in the left arm, and a glancing shaft that had ripped a gash in his right thigh. He forced the pain from his thoughts.

“Get me a horse, a good one.” Bekka pushed himself to his feet. His head hurt, either from the fall into the water or the rage in his heart. The growl in his voice made his men jump to find him a suitable mount. This fight might be over, but Bekka still had work to do. His right leg hurt more than the wound in his arm, and he accepted the help of two of his men in climbing on the strange and skittish stallion.

He settled onto the animal’s back with a sigh, and sat there a few moments, to calm his new mount. When the horse settled down, he took a moment to make sure both his knife and sword slid freely in their scabbards.

A glance around showed the extent of the disaster. Men sat on the ground, staring at nothing, weapons dumped beside them. Many of his fighters had taken wounds. Others appeared stunned at their defeat. Some hung their heads, unwilling to speak, embarrassed by the shame of their failure. Bekka had no idea how many warriors had fallen, even those from his own clan. That, too, could wait.

“Kushi, come with me,” Bekka ordered. “You are now a leader of forty.”

His newly promoted subcommander had his own bloody bandage across his chest, but he seemed fit enough. Kushi swung up onto his horse, hiding any pain that he might feel.

Bekka guided his horse across the top of the hill, then down about thirty paces to the place where Chulum’s clan had gathered to lick their wounds and count their dead and missing. Bekka picked his way through the dismounted men, ignoring their grunts of pain as they tended to their injuries.

Chulum had survived the battle, damn the luck, though he now wore a bloody bandage wrapped around his forehead, and a second one around his left hand. Chulum, too, had found a new horse, and he remained astride as he listened to the reports of his men.

The wounded Serpent Clan warriors ignored Bekka’s approach. Those still fit to fight glanced at him with little interest. The shock of defeat weighed heavily on their hearts. Chulum’s men had led the way and taken the brunt of the losses, but Bekka didn’t concern himself about that.

Chulum saw Bekka’s approach, and his right hand moved closer to the hilt of his sword.

Bekka ignored the gesture. He slowed his horse and stopped it beside that of Chulum, facing him, their right knees almost touching. Bekka stared at the leader of the Serpent Clan.

“Your men should have taken their flank,” Chulum said, breaking the silence with an angry shout. “We were almost across. If you had. .”

Bekka kicked his horse’s right flank, at the same time easing up on the halter. The horse, as well trained as any Alur Meriki mount, moved toward the right, pushing against Chulum’s mount and forcing it to take a step backward. At the same time, Bekka’s right hand flashed down, not for his sword, but for his knife. Before the startled Chulum could recover control of his horse or draw his sword, Bekka had lunged forward, extending his arm to its fullest, and thrust the knife deep into Chulum’s right side.

Not a killing blow, but Bekka kicked a second time at his horse, and once again the animal responded, this time shoving Chulum’s mount with enough force to stagger the animal. The sudden lurch tipped Chulum from his horse, and he fell heavily onto the hard ground, Bekka’s knife still protruding from his side.

Bekka slid his good leg over the neck of his horse and dropped to the ground, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced up his injured leg and made him clench his teeth. Bekka’s sword slid from its scabbard, as Chulum struggled to his knees and fumbled for his sword, blood already staining his right side. With a quick move, Bekka raised his weapon and struck, striking Chulum in the shoulder blade. The blow knocked Chulum back to the ground and wrenched a cry of pain from his lips.

“You disobeyed the order of your commander!” Bekka put all the force of his body into the shout. He wanted to make sure everyone heard his words. The warriors all around him had gone silent, though he heard the faint rasp of bows against shafts. At least a handful of Chulum’s warriors had drawn their weapons. Only one had to let loose and Bekka would be dead.

Caught up in his own rage, Bekka didn’t care. “You disobeyed my order to wait for Thutmose-sin.” Again the words bellowed across the hilltop. “Because of your stupidity, many of your men and mine are dead, slaughtered for nothing. And the dirt eaters are now laughing at all of us.”

Bekka raised up his sword again, this time using both hands. The blood streaked blade swung down, and this time it landed exactly where Bekka aimed. The thick bronze cut deep into Chulum’s neck, nearly slicing through and unleashing a burst of bloody spray that pulsed for a few moments before Chulum’s heart ceased beating.

“Men of the Serpent Clan,” Bekka shouted, whirling the sword around to include all the warriors, “you will obey my orders!”

“Put down your weapons,” Kushi bellowed, following Bekka’s lead. He, too, had drawn his sword. “Obey your new clan leader.”

The Serpent warriors exchanged glances. Chulum’s leadership had garnered him few friends. One by one, the warriors lowered their weapons, letting bows go slack or half-drawn swords slide back into their sheaths.

Bekka knelt down, ignoring the pain in his leg, and cleaned his sword on Chulum’s tunic. Now was not the time to show weakness. When he finished wiping the blade, Bekka jerked his knife from Chulum’s side, and cleaned that, too. Then Bekka straightened up, returned his weapons to their scabbards, and turned to face the warriors.

“You will obey my orders until Thutmose-sin decides what to do with you.” He extended his right arm and swept it around, encompassing all of Chulum’s men. “Any one of you who disobeys a command from me or Kushi, or from any of my commanders, will be handed over to Thutmose-sin for judgment. Do you understand?”

They did. If Chulum had indeed disobeyed the Sarum’s orders, he deserved his death. If not, the Alur Meriki High Council would sort it out. When clan leaders fought, the common warrior preferred to stay out of it. Meanwhile, no warrior wanted to face Thutmose-sin’s fury, especially not after this defeat.

Bekka surveyed the sullen warriors one more time, as if searching for any sign of disobedience. He saw only sullen looks, and no one met his gaze. “Good. Kushi, take charge of these men. Count the dead and wounded, and report back to me.”

It took all his strength and he had to grit his teeth, but Bekka managed to swing himself back onto his horse, refusing to let the pain from his wounds show on his face or in his movements.

He had survived another battle. Now all he had to worry about was the same danger he’s just used to threaten the Serpent Clan. Thutmose-sin’s anger might soon be directed first and foremost at Bekka.