Clash Of Empires

Chapter 32

Midafternoon arrived before Lord Modran, teeth clenched and a grim look on his face, finally met with all his commanders. Less than half of them had survived, and Modran’s soldiers still licked their wounds. Two battles in four days, and nothing to show for it, except thousands killed and even more wounded.

The dead bodies festered everywhere, and the unceasing cries of the wounded grated on Modran’s ears, though the sounds grew steadily weaker, as thirst and loss of blood took their toll. He ordered his commanders not to waste any food or water on anyone who couldn’t fight.

Meanwhile, flocks of carrion birds, attracted by the smell of blood and decomposing flesh, circled their way raucously through the air, their mocking cries seemingly directed at Lord Modran.

After the retreat, the discouraged soldiers had moved to the rear, pushing and shoving, cursing at their leaders. Modran’s soldiers had scattered all over the Pass, and now many were unable to find, let alone regroup, into their proper units.

And when they did locate their companions, the troops involved in the fighting swore that they would not face the Akkadians in the front ranks again. After this attack, every Elamite soldier knew how slim the odds were of surviving in the first battle line, even in a victory.

Modran heard the bitter words, but didn’t bother to berate his men. He knew about soldiers’ anger after a retreat, and today’s debacle stood far above a mere movement to the rear. His soldiers understood, perhaps better than their commanders, that lives had been wasted.

Thousands of men dead, and after all that blood, the Akkadians still blocked the Pass. Today’s rough count of the dead and badly wounded had reached over seven thousand. After eliminating the numbers of the siege men, porters, livery men, and other non-fighters, Modran had just over seventeen thousand men able to fight.

Nevertheless, by the time General Martiya had taken the count of the dead and wounded and collected his subcommanders, Lord Modran had regained control of his anger at today’s disaster. Now his surviving unit commanders stood together, shoulder to shoulder, each blaming in a loud voice someone else, mostly the dead commanders, for the failure to breach the line.

Martiya, too, had given vent to his own frustration. “We were breaking them. Their center was ready to collapse. But a few boys with slings drove back our men from beneath the cliff, and we lost our chance.”

One of the subcommanders, his right hand shattered by a slinger’s stone, voiced his thoughts. “Those were not boys, and they threw so many stones at us that. .”

“Stones, arrows, spears,” Modran shouted, “no one retreats until the order is given.” He glared at the soldier until he lowered his eyes, no doubt wishing his commanding general had taken a stone to the head.

“We should have attacked again,” Martiya said. “The Akkadians were ready to break. Another assault would have overwhelmed them. Instead we’re likely to waste the rest of the day collecting the men and moving them back into position.”

“There’s still time,” Modran said. “We will wait until dark, then move our men up, and launch a night attack. In the darkness their bowmen won’t be able to pick and choose their targets. We should get close enough to rush them.” He turned to Martiya. “Can we do it?”

“Mmm, a night attack, it’s not a bad idea.” Martiya rubbed the scratch on his face. “They won’t be expecting an assault after dark. We could form a column, and instead of trying to hit the entire line at once, we strike at a single point of their position, say their right flank. That would keep our men away from the slingers, who need the height of the cliffs to be any threat. By the time the Akkadians shifted enough men over to stop us, we could break through and overrun them by sheer numbers. Once behind the line, we can slaughter them all.”

Modran hadn’t considered attacking at a single point, but the idea sounded workable. A column of a hundred men abreast, with fifty men lined up behind each soldier in the front rank, would be unstoppable at night. Even the Akkadians couldn’t kill so many fast enough. It would be easier to organize and move the soldiers in a column, rather than trying to keep a line the width of the Pass intact and moving forward in unison.

“We could feint attacks at their center and left flank,” Modran said, thinking out loud. “By the time they realized we were concentrating on their right flank, the bulk of our forces would be on top of them.”

“Who would lead the attack?” Martiya’s question wasn’t an idle one. Whatever contingent spearheaded the assault would take heavy causalities even if it broke Eskkar’s line.

Modran wanted to send the remnants of General Jedidia’s men to the front again, but he didn’t trust them. Any setback, no matter how small, would have them running once more to the rear. “We’ll have to use the Immortals. I don’t trust any of the others.”

The number of Immortals under Lord Modran’s command numbered exactly two thousand men. Whenever one of them fell in battle, he was replaced by another handpicked fighter from the city of Anshan. Proven in many battles, they considered themselves the best of the Elamite army, and rightly so.

No enemy had ever withstood their attack. The Immortals were proud fighters, and their pride would not let them suffer a defeat. Personally loyal to King Shirudukh, for this campaign he had assigned them to Lord Modran.

Modran’s private guards were selected from the best of the Immortals. So far, the entire force had been held in reserve. Modran hadn’t been willing to see them decimated by Akkad’s archers, especially so far from Akkad’s walls. This situation, however, called for desperate measures.

“We can count on the Immortals to continue the assault, no matter what,” Martiya agreed. “With them leading the way, the others will follow.”

“Then it’s settled.” Modran took a deep breath, and stared up the Pass. Nearly a mile away, he could make out the Akkadians. A line of men still stood across the Pass, waiting. His own soldiers, slumped to the ground, showed despair and defeat with every movement.

“As soon as it’s too dark for the Akkadians to see, we’ll move the Immortals up. We’ll have five thousand men behind them. Use the rest of the cowards to convince the Akkadians we’re attacking them head-on once again.”

Martiya nodded. “If we start our preparations as soon as darkness falls, we should be ready by midnight, or a little later. Have you received word from Zanbil? Are more supplies on the way?”

Modran had not heard from the first messengers he’d dispatched to Zanbil, and their failure to return added to his rage. He’d ordered one of them to report back at once, as soon as they delivered his message. That man should have returned two days ago. Zanbil had plenty of supplies by now, with more arriving each day from the south. Modran needed those supplies, needed them now. He’d made sure that his messengers understood the urgency of his demands.

The second group of messengers, twenty in number, also should have reached Zanbil by noon today. That meant that large quantities of supplies must already be on their way. Nevertheless, he could not wait much longer. Already his men were eating the dead horses, and with no firewood for cooking, gagging on the raw meat.

Even if the food arrived late, Modran knew it would help restore his men’s confidence and strength. More important, the hundreds of water skins he’d demanded would keep his army fighting. Once they broke Eskkar’s ranks, all the Akkadian food and water supplies would be theirs.

“No, I’ve heard nothing from Zanbil,” Lord Modran said. “The first messengers and supplies should have returned by now.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Martiya said. “We’ve got to attack soon. Otherwise our soldiers will be too weak from hunger and dry from thirst to fight well. We have to go tonight.”

Modran nodded, his jaw clenched. It had come to that. With his vast army, he now had only this one chance to beat the Akkadians. “Make sure the men know what’s at stake. If they want to quench their thirst, they have to break Eskkar’s line. He’s got plenty of food and water.”

“Yes, damn him.” Martiya spat on the ground. “He’s still getting supplies from Akkad. By the gods, how did he ever manage to accomplish that?” Martiya smacked his fist into his palm. “Food and arrows, and water, too, most of it carried by farmers and tradesmen.”

That no longer mattered either, Modran knew. “For tonight’s attack, make sure every man knows his battle position. Tell them to get some rest, but make sure there are no delays forming up and preparing for the assault.”

“There won’t be,” Martiya said. “Still, I’d feel better if I knew more supplies were coming.”

Their situation had indeed turned desperate. But Modran had more serious stakes at risk. If he failed to defeat Eskkar’s men, King Shirudukh would almost certainly have Modran’s head on a spear. All Shirudukh would need to hear was that thirty thousand soldiers, including a force of Immortals, could not brush aside less than ten thousand. Trivial details about the narrow confines of the Pass, or lack of food and water, would not mitigate the King’s wrath.

No, Modran had no intention of returning to Elam with that message. Even if the King let him live, Modran would be forced to beg for his life at Chaiyanar and Jedidia’s feet, removed from his command, his wealth confiscated, his men dispersed. Modran would watch while Chaiyanar and Jedidia reaped the rewards of the invasion. By now Sumer would be ready to fall, and Jedidia was no doubt wreaking havoc in the empty lands north of Akkad. If he met no resistance, he, too, might decide to ride for Akkad.

Those thoughts stiffened Modran’s determination. He’d overwhelm Eskkar’s lines if he had to sacrifice every man in his army to do it.

“Break Eskkar’s line, Martiya,” Modran said. “Break their line, and we’ll be at Akkad’s gates in five days.”

“We will.” Without waiting to be dismissed, Martiya spun on his heel and walked away, his fists clenched in anger.

Modran ignored the slight from his second in command. Instead he turned his gaze on the rest of his sullen commanders. “You know what’s at stake, and what you need to do. Any man that falters will be put to the sword. The Immortals will lead the way to victory.”

One by one, heads nodded in approval. The Akkadians, forced to defend the entire width of the Dellen Pass, no longer had enough men to resist a concentrated attack on their right flank. They, too, must have taken heavy losses in today’s battle. Thoughts of victory took root in every Elamite commander. The darkness of night, and the strength of the Immortals, would break the Akkadians’ position.

As soon as it grew too dark to see, Shappa ordered his slingers to move out. Once again, Markesh led the way through the darkness, crawling on his hands and knees for the first hundred paces. Two hundred and sixty slingers followed behind him.

None of them carried bows. Even in the dimmest moonlight, a bow’s silhouette was too distinct, too noticeable. For tonight’s attack, slings were the preferred weapon. Nearly silent, they could be used from a crouching position.

Each slinger carried twenty-five bronze bullets. Markesh hadn’t wanted any extra weight of projectiles to slow down his men. Without the extra missiles, they could move easier and faster through the darkness.

The Elamites, as they had done each night, established a strong perimeter across the width of the Pass, to give plenty of warning should the Akkadians attempt a night attack. But the line of enemy sentries stood only a hundred paces in front of their main force. Obviously, the Elamites had discounted the idea that the numerically inferior Akkadians might try to attack a much larger force, even at night.

So far, neither side had tried to use the darkness of night for an assault. Moving heavily armed men across a broken field littered with dead carcasses everywhere sounded foolhardy. The noise from any such attempt would be easily heard.

Nor did soldiers like the idea of fighting at night. Everyone knew that after dark demons rose from their secret pits to wander the earth, eager to snatch men’s souls from their bodies and carry them to the bowels of the earth. Dying at night or lying wounded in battle left the victim’s body and spirit even more likely to be taken.

The Akkadian slingers, however, had trained so often at night that such fears had no effect on Shappa’s men. After years of training, not a single slinger had fallen victim to a demon, and Markesh doubted tonight’s raid would be any different. After all, the demons had feasted on the dead and wounded Elamites for many days.

Markesh traveled slowly. He would have liked to stay on his hands and knees, but the distance to the enemy camp was too far for that, so he and his force moved at a crouch. He stopped often to rest and listen for any sounds from the Elamites. But he heard nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual noise from the enemy camp, a background of talk and men stumbling about in the darkness.

There were very few campfires, of course, not since the first night after the two armies had faced each other. What little wood remained, probably from broken shields, went to the fires of the Elamite leaders. He could see the glow from those much farther back behind the Elamite front line.

By the time Markesh had traveled to within two hundred paces of the enemy sentries, the moon had risen high into the night sky. No challenge had greeted them, and every time he looked toward the Elamite camp, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Now he stood nearly upright, and studied the enemy camp. Nothing had changed, nothing moved. . something had changed. The handful of remote campfires, tiny beacons of light, now shifted and flickered. For long moments, they even disappeared.

Puzzled, Markesh stared at the distant fires, while his impatient men bunched up behind him. The campfires couldn’t be seen from Eskkar’s battle line, except as a vague glow on the rocks. But here, closer to the enemy, Markesh could make out the unusual flames as they flickered from red to dark.

“What is it?” Eletti, his second in command, whispered the words in Markesh’s ear. “Why are we stopping?”

Suddenly Markesh understood the odd flickering. Men, large numbers of men, were passing in front of the low flames. And large formations of Elamites moving about in the darkness meant only one thing — the Elamites were readying a night attack.

Markesh gripped Eletti’s shoulder. “Get back to our lines as quick as you can. Find Eskkar first, and tell him I think the Elamites are preparing for a night attack. Go!”

“But what. .”

“Just go, and don’t stop for anything. Run!” He pushed Eletti toward the rear, then turned to his men, dim shadows crouching on the ground. “Spread out and start moving. We need to get rid of those sentries and launch our attack the instant we’re in position!”

The Elamite sentries, one hundred men, saw nothing in the shadowy land between the two forces. They kept their eyes up the slope, where the Akkadian battle line remained dark and silent. Many of the guards swung their gaze toward their own camp, watching the shifting mass of soldiers. None paid any attention to the ground close to their own lines.

Rumors had swept the camp of a night raid even before the leaders of fifty and twenty received their orders from Modran’s subcommanders. Those stories had gained strength when the men glimpsed the Immortals moving about. By now even the sentries could see the haughty Immortals and other detachments move into position.

The first stone struck one of the sentries full in the chest, knocking the breath from his body and breaking two ribs. The injured man gasped at the sharp pain, but softly, and only the guard to his right turned toward the noise. The movement saved his life, as a second stone glanced off the side of his head. Falling to his knees, he called out, giving warning before another missile knocked the breath from his body.

A third man cried out, while a fourth sentry, struck in the head, died instantly. Before the rest of the sentries realized what was happening, more than six hundred missiles had been hurled at their line. Men dropped, hit by the unseen projectiles. Others shouted from the pain or broke into curses.

Some yet unscathed, watched in disbelief as their companions fell. Then they turned and raced back toward the main body, voicing the alarm as they ran. In moments, half the sentries were dead or down, and the rest fleeing to the rear.

Markesh ordered his men forward. Crouched over, he led the way, counting his strides as he went. When he reached fifty, he dropped to the ground. The enemy camp was less than seventy paces ahead. Markesh dropped a stone into the sling’s pouch, and hurled it toward the Elamite camp.

On either side of their leader, the other slingers moved into a rough line and followed Markesh’s example. A swarm of bronze bullets flew through the night.

No orders were given, and none were needed. The men knew what to do — spread confusion within the enemy’s camp.

General Martiya, still moving his force of Immortals to the front, heard the exclamations and shouts of his men. Soldiers cried out that they were being attacked, that the Akkadians were assaulting the line. Everywhere men fumbled for their weapons and shields. The bowmen strung their bows and readied their shafts, but no one had a target. If men were moving out beyond the sentry line, Martiya couldn’t see or hear them.

“Form up!” Martiya’s bellow brought the first semblance of order to his men. “Hold the line!”

Arrows flew out into the darkness, most aimed at nothing. Martiya reached the front ranks as the men lined up, ready to meet an attack. He saw one man drop to the ground, and even in the dim moonlight Martiya glimpsed the bronze bullet that struck the man’s head. Only then did he understand that a force of those cursed slingers was out there, causing confusion in the Elamite vanguard, and not a full-fledged attack by Eskkar’s soldiers.

Meanwhile, the rain of bronze projectiles continued, striking men at random, many of the missiles landing twenty or thirty paces to Martiya’s rear. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the missiles ceased coming. By that time the Elamites were launching arrows into the night, shooting at shadows that seemed to flit from one place to another.

But Markesh and his men were already gone, still crouched over and scrambling back toward the safety of the Akkadian battle line. Behind them, they left a camp in confusion, full of dead and wounded. His two hundred and sixty men had flung over six thousand bullets at the Elamites, more than enough to wreak havoc on the enemy camp for a time.

The moon revealed that midnight had passed before General Martiya regained control of his men. Without even waiting for Modran’s permission, he had canceled the order for the Immortals to launch their attack. The slingers’ raid, like the sting of a thousand bees, had shaken the entire camp. Any chance of launching a surprise attack on the Akkadians had vanished.

Modran, his face red with fury, screamed at Martiya. “How dare you cancel the order to attack! The men were in position. They would have. .”

“They would have been cut to shreds. Every Akkadian would have been on his feet and in position for an attack. The Immortals would have been slaughtered.”

Modran, speechless for the first time in his life, glared at his commander. “But we were almost ready.”

“If the slingers were close enough to fling their stones, they were close enough to see the Immortals forming up on one side of the Pass. They probably sent word even before they began their attack.”

“Is there any way to try again?” Modran’s voice now held an almost pleading tone. “There’s still plenty of time before dawn.”

Martiya had soldiered for too many years, and knew better than to argue with an enraged superior. But now was not the time for polite acquiescence. “The Akkadian attack accomplished little. It killed just over a hundred men, though many more were injured, My Lord. But it succeeded in accomplishing what Eskkar must have intended. It rattled the men’s nerves. If we had started to move out into the darkness, even a single stone from a slinger would have panicked the men. And since the traitor delivered his message, some of the men are convinced the gods themselves oppose us. They’re muttering that we should turn back, return to Elam.”

Modran ground his teeth in frustration. The Akkadians had forced a captured Elamite cavalryman to shout a message loud enough to be heard by most of the front ranks. By the time anyone thought to put an arrow into him, the poisonous words had taken hold. Now many remembered and repeated the stories about Eskkar, that he’d never lost a battle, and that the gods protected him and his city.

“We can try again tomorrow night,” Modran said. We can have our men out in advance. We can. .”

“By tomorrow night, we won’t have a drop of water in the camp, My Lord. Unless some supplies arrive from Zanbil, we’ll be too weak to launch another assault.”

The mention of Zanbil renewed Lord Modran’s rage. The first pack train bringing fresh water and food was already two days late. Tomorrow, however, should bring a large number of supplies.

“The supplies will be here tomorrow,” Modran insisted, “or by the gods, I’ll put every man in Zanbil to the torture.

“If we wait for them, and they don’t arrive, by sundown we’ll be too weak to fight. That means we have to attack at dawn, and go with everything we have. Damn the losses. If only a hundred men survive to stand over Eskkar’s corpse, that will be enough.”

“The night attack would have succeeded,” Modran said.

“Yes, I think it would,” Martiya said. “But the chance for any more night attacks from either army is gone now.”

“You know what’s at stake, Martiya? You understand what failure means?”

“Shirudukh will probably have both our heads. Better to lose the entire army than return without destroying the Akkadians.”

Modran swore in frustration. Eskkar had confounded them once again, probably without even knowing what he’d done. “We’ll use some of the Immortals to drive the rest of the rabble forward. Our men are more afraid of them than they are of the Akkadians.”

“One last assault,” Martiya agreed. “If we lose, we’ll be on our knees begging King Shirudukh for our lives. If we live through the fight.”

After Eletti had carried back the first warning, Eskkar and his commanders had formed up the men and readied themselves for an immediate attack. But as soon as Markesh returned, Eskkar and his commanders, along with Shappa, heard the full story from Markesh, including everything he’d seen about the confusion in the Elamite camp.

Alexar and Drakis shifted extra men to the right flank and warned everyone to stay alert.

Meanwhile, fifty of Shappa’s men were once again out in no man’s land, acting as sentries. When the Elamites decided to come, Eskkar’s men would have plenty of warning.

“I should have realized the Elamites would try to avoid the cliffs and Shappa’s slingers in their next attack,” Eskkar said. “They were probably planning to drive a wedge through our lines, and then take us from the rear.”

He turned to Shappa. “Without Markesh’s raid, they probably would have caught us by surprise. We might have been overwhelmed. That makes twice you’ve saved the battle, Shappa, and you, too, Markesh.”

Everyone congratulated the two slingers, slapping them on the back. By now the whole camp knew what had happened, and stood ready for the next attack.

“They probably won’t come tonight,” Alexar said. “But we’ll have to keep the men at their post.”

Eskkar agreed. “It will be long and sleepless night for our men, and probably a hard fight in the morning.”

“And then it will be over,” Drakis said.

“Yes,” Eskkar said. “One way or another, it will be over.”