Clash Of Empires

Chapter 38

By midafternoon of the next day, Sargon’s warriors were near exhaustion. Every man had pushed himself to the utmost. Even the horses looked spent, despite their frequent rests while their riders changed mounts. The last twenty miles of their ride had taken them over the hardest part of the Pass, and stretched both man and beast to their limits.

The ride gave Sargon a better appreciation of Modran’s dead messengers, caught by surprise after the arduous ride. They, too, had covered the rough ground with remarkable speed. But now the slope of the trail tended to be mostly down, and Sargon knew they had drawn close to Modran’s army.

“Sargon! A scout is returning.” Den’rack, riding at Sargon’s side, showed little effect from the punishing journey.

Sargon looked up to see a rider galloping toward them. Sargon halted the warriors, who bunched up around him, all eager to hear the news.

Pulling his horse to a stop, the man blurted out what he’d seen. The rear guard of Lord Modran’s army lay just over a mile ahead.

This time Sargon had to see for himself. He halted the warriors and ordered them to stay where they were. Then, with only Den’rack, Garal, and the scout, Sargon rode the final mile through the Dellen Pass. When the four reached the second scout, Sargon swung down from his mount, and the leaders covered the last fifty paces on foot.

The scout pointed to a sloping boulder, and they scrambled up the slippery stone until they reached the top. Flat on their stomachs, they peered down the trail at the back end of Lord Modran’s army.

A little over a quarter mile ahead, Sargon studied the rear guard of Modran’s troops. Not really soldiers, of course. These were the siege workers, the diggers and sappers, the carpenters who would construct ladders and shields, butchers and cooks to feed everyone, and livery men to help with the pack animals.

At least a hundred tents, crammed into every part of the Pass, provided shelter. Only a thin ribbon of the trail, enough for two or three horses side by side, remained open in the center of the Pass.

“Where are the horses?” Garal sounded surprised. “Wouldn’t they keep the horses at the rear?”

“They’ll be up ahead,” Sargon said. “The cavalry would want their mounts as close as possible, in case they needed them. There must be some just around that curve in the trail. These are only the laborers that Modran will use in the siege of Akkad. Most are unarmed.”

“With so many tents,” Den’rack said, “there may be two or three hundred men between us and the herds.”

“Probably more,” Sargon said. His experience with Akkad’s soldiers and their support units gave him a better grasp of the Elamite’s numbers. “But I don’t see any fighting men, only a few guards. Modran isn’t expecting any threats from his rear.”

Sargon kept studying the enemy position. The men camped before him were clearly not fighters. No doubt most of them would panic at the first sight of a sword.

“When we ride into them, the noise will alert the guards up ahead who are protecting the horses,” Garal said. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

Still thinking through the problem, Sargon didn’t reply at first. “Perhaps. But there may be a way to make this work for us.”

He sketched out his idea, one simple but daring enough to appeal to the warriors. Both Den’rack and Garal offered suggestions and improvements. Soon a workable plan emerged, risky, but one that would satisfy every warrior’s craving for blood and honor.

“Then it’s settled,” Sargon said, hoping that his idea wouldn’t get them all killed. “We’ll have to prepare the warriors with care. Each one will have his task.”

“They’ll be ready,” Den’rack said. “This will give everyone more fight than they imagined.”

“Then as soon as night falls, we go.” Sargon turned to Garal. “If this works, you’ll have a better story to tell around the campfire than Chinua.”

Garal chuckled. “As long as I’m alive to tell it.”

The evening shadows arrived early in the mountainous terrain. The siege workers ended their day even before the shadows began to lengthen. They had little energy, receiving a smaller ration of food than the rest of Modran’s fighters. Water was even scarcer, and many of them had little more than a mouthful since the morning.

The few guards posted were lax as well. Tasked with keeping anyone from trying to desert and head back through the Pass toward Zanbil, they kept their eyes on the trail to the west. But they turned quickly enough when they heard the sound of hoof beats echoing off the cliff walls.

Two riders appeared, pushing their horses hard up the slight incline. The leader of the guards, a heavyset man almost too old to fight, moved to the center of the trail, and raised his hand.

The two messengers, wearing the tunics and emblems of Modran’s personal staff, pulled their lathered horses to a stop.

“What news from Zanbil do you bring?” The guard got right to the point. “Is food and water on the way?”

“Yes, and we’ve urgent news for Lord Modran,” Sargon answered. “There’s a company of horsemen right behind us carrying supplies and weapons. Clear this rabble from the trail.”

The guard stared at Sargon for a moment. He didn’t recognize the messengers, but that meant nothing. Modran’s staff was large enough for two armies. He turned his eyes to the second man. “How far have you ridden?”

“From Zanbil and beyond,” Garal snapped. “My commander ordered you to clear the way. The reinforcements, a hundred men and a hundred pack animals, are right behind us.”

Both messengers spoke the main Elamite language. The guard didn’t recognize their accent, but with so many men from different lands fighting in Modran’s army, that was to be expected.

The sounds of horses approaching grew louder. Down the slope came the reinforcements, moving at an easy canter and riding in a column of twos, most of them leading extra pack horses.

“Let’s ride,” Sargon said. “Lord Modran is waiting for us.”

The guard and his men shrank aside, and Sargon and Garal put their horses to a canter. With the main troop almost upon them, the guard ordered his men to clear a path. They knew none of Modran’s cavalry would think twice about trampling some lazy laborer or overly officious guard.

Then the horses trotted past, guided by grim looking fighters. The leader of the guards gave them the briefest glance as they rode by his post. The next guard post, at the rear of the horse herds, would take the reinforcements through.

In moments the troop of riders had come and gone, disappearing up the trail, and the guard resumed his main duty, making sure no one deserted Lord Modran’s army.

Sargon breathed a sigh of relief as they left the rear guard behind. Garal, riding at his side, laughed softly.

“Well, the first part of your plan worked. The rest of the warriors are coming through.”

“It will not be as easy to get out as it was to get in,” Sargon said. Still, he, too, smiled in the deepening darkness.

He and Garal had dressed in garments taken from the dead messengers. Just as important, they both spoke Elam’s main dialect, and that more than anything disarmed the sentry’s suspicions. The rest of Sargon’s men had been told to keep their mouths shut, and just ride through at the same steady pace. A handful of warriors had also donned whatever usable clothing they’d taken from the dead.

All the warriors had removed their feathers and any signs that would mark them as men of the steppes. They had also left their lances, a favorite weapon of the steppes fighters, behind. Their short, curved bows, worn across their chests, attracted no attention.

If Sargon and Garal had been challenged, they would have abandoned their plan to reach the enemy horses. Instead, they would have attacked the rear guard, and done what damage they could.

But the deception — Sargon remembered his father telling him that all warfare is based on deception — had worked perfectly. Now the entire group of warriors had moved into the gap between the support troops and the first of the horse herds. That gap, less than a quarter mile long, soon ended.

Once again Sargon saw a handful of sentries watching them approach. But this time Sargon didn’t halt. “Messages and supplies for Lord Modran,” he shouted as he brushed past the guards.

“Clear the way, you fools,” Garal shouted.

Nevertheless, Sargon slowed his horse to a trot. The horse herd, held in by ropes and separated on both sides of the trail, might be spooked by any large group of fast moving riders.

A hundred paces behind them, Den’rack matched Sargon’s pace, and his men followed his lead. They kept their eyes straight ahead, as if their only interest lay in reaching their destination. They followed the trail as it twisted and turned its way through the Pass.

The place selected by the Elamites to hold the horses was mostly flat. Small guard details of two or three men were posted every three or four hundred paces. Their assignment was to make sure some drunken fool didn’t stampede the horses, or possibly steal one in attempting to desert. Most of these sentries didn’t even bother to look up as Sargon’s warriors rode by in the gathering darkness. Each assumed that someone else had cleared the riders.

“By the gods, how many horses are there?” Garal spoke just loud enough to be heard by Sargon.

Sargon had been wondering the same thing. Many of the horses in the herd, lifting their heads to stare as the troop trotted past, showed more interest in their passing than did the guards. He kept counting, estimating the size of this herd.

Modran had entered the Pass with nine thousand cavalry. Likely he would keep a good sized force of horsemen near the front lines, in the event his Elamites could break Eskkar’s position. The rest would be kept here, in the rear.

Moving with care, Sargon’s force rode by the first horse herd, then the second and a third. The Elamites appeared to be keeping the herds about a quarter mile apart, which made sense with so many horses.

He tried to keep a rough count of the horses. Each herd numbered between three and four hundred horses, with ten or twenty guards for every group. If the herds grew too large, no one would be able to find a particular horse. After Sargon passed the fourth herd, they encountered a large campsite with at least two hundred men taking their ease.

By now no one even glanced at Sargon’s men as they rode by. Everyone assumed that he was riding to the front of the camp and Modran’s headquarters.

After passing two more herds, Sargon guessed he had ridden past more than two thousand horses. He raised his hand, and slowed the warriors to a gradual halt, easing to a stop just between the last herd and the one up ahead.

“I think we’ve come far enough, Garal,” he said. “If we go any deeper into the Pass, we’ll never get out alive.”

“Yes, I think this is more than enough glory for anyone, at least for me.”

“Let’s hope we don’t get more glory than we bargained for,” Sargon said. “I don’t want to be remembered as the fool who rode into the center of Modran’s army and disappeared.

Den’rack and the others joined them.

“We’ve ridden far enough,” Sargon said. “I’ll take sixty warriors and stampede the herds ahead of us toward Modran’s front line. Jennat will take forty warriors and stampede the herds we passed back down the trail.”

Neither clan leader had wanted that assignment. Both Den’rack and Garal wanted the honor and danger that would arise from moving toward the soldiers. And so Den’rack had placed Jennat of the Ur Nammu, and Yassur of the Alur Meriki in charge of driving the smaller herd back down the Pass and toward Zanbil.

Sargon, too, refused to lead the rear movement. “Jennat, wait until we’ve stampeded the next herd, then start your attack. That may give us both a few extra moments of surprise.” He turned to Garal and Den’rack. “Are you ready?” He didn’t want to waste any more time debating the assignments. Some too alert guard might wonder why the riders stopped in the middle of the Pass, with nothing but horses in front and rear.

“Yes! Let’s ride!” Garal’s loud voice echoed off the walls, and the nearby Elamite horses lifted their heads.

Den’rack began the stampede. He kicked his horse forward, letting loose a war cry that startled every Elamite horse. His booming voice filled the Pass. “Ride, warriors, ride!”

Garal matched him stride for stride, leaving a cursing Sargon three lengths behind. Giving voice to their war cries, the sixty chosen warriors moved forward, spreading out as they did. Arrows were launched at the herd in front of them. In moments both sides of the Pass erupted to the thunder of hundreds of horses on the move, all heading west toward Modran’s battle line, guided and urged on by Sargon’s warriors.

The Elamite horses, many struck by arrows meant to wound, not kill, turned away from the shouting and war cries bearing down on them. The flimsy ropes holding them in snapped unnoticed. The horses, their fear intensified by the screams of the wounded animals and the scent of blood, raced through the Pass, heading west.

Even the hard and rocky ground of the Dellen Pass shook under the horses’ hooves. The next herd, already spooked by the increasing sound, started stirring as well. The moment those animals saw the oncoming horses, they, too, stampeded away from the approaching and thoroughly frightened horses. Adding to the panic were the screaming war cries and sharp arrows of Sargon’s warriors.

By the time Sargon reached the third holding place, at least a thousand horses galloped ahead of him through the Pass. And while in a normal stampede the animals might run a quarter mile before slowing down, the presence of the warriors driving them along with shouts and arrows, and even their swords, ensured that the herd did not stop.

Elamite guards, caught by surprise as much as their horses, were trampled underfoot or forced to run for their lives to the sides of the Pass. Those that made it clung to the rocks, weapons and tools forgotten. They watched helplessly as the horses, kept to a frenzy by the strange horsemen, raced past. Campfires, cooking utensils, sleeping blankets, even tents disappeared under the hooves of a thousand terrified horses.

Den’rack, leading the way and launching arrows as fast as any of his men, finally held up his hand. Sargon and the others slowed to a stop beside him.

“Time to go back,” Den’rack shouted. “The horses will run for at least a mile now. We must turn around.”

Some of the eager warriors wanted to continue riding, but Sargon, too, recognized the danger. The farther into the Pass they went, the more Elamites they would encounter, and the easier it would be for them to be trapped. He gave the order and the reluctant warriors turned their horses around.

This time Sargon led the way at a gallop. They needed to close up behind Jennat as fast as possible. His forty men had to drive well over two thousands horses, and keep them on the move so that they ran all the way back through the Elamite rear guard and down the Pass.

As Sargon’s warriors raced eastward through the now empty portion of the Pass, the Elamites began to recover from their surprise. Shouts and curses, and even a few arrows were launched at the galloping riders. Sargon, glancing behind him, saw one warrior take an arrow in the throat and pitch from his horse. But then that section of the trail lay behind them, and they kept riding, urging their tired mounts to run as fast as possible.

At last Sargon glimpsed Jennat’s warriors a quarter mile ahead. The much larger mass of horses had obviously required more work to stampede, and more urging to continue. But soon Sargon’s riders added their voices to those of Jennat’s men, and the massive herd, though slowed now to an easy gallop, kept moving.

They swept through what was left of the invaders’ rear guard, and Sargon saw the flattened tents. More than a few bodies littered the ground, proof that some of the laborers had not managed to reach the safety of the cliff walls in time.

Then the last enemy camp lay behind them. The Elamites would pursue them, of course, but it would take them a long time to regain control of their horses, find their mounts, and regroup.

Den’rack, his quiver empty, slowed his horse and joined Sargon. “We’re stampeded more horses than Chief Bekka did to the Carchemishi.”

Sargon grinned. “Now you have your own story to tell.”

Both men laughed, and they continued down the Pass. Neither man noticed that Garal wasn’t with them.

Lord Modran stood outside his tent after meeting with his commanders, angry at the time wasted in coordinating the plans for the final assault. His commanders, so efficient in laying siege to walled villages and cities, and so resourceful at attacking opponents on open ground, seemed both confused and incompetent in the Dellen Pass. The large size of the Elamite army added to the chaos, consuming food and water at an alarming rate, and all the while accomplishing nothing.

Once again Modran cursed the King of Akkad. Eskkar’s men maintained their ranks efficiently, and his supply line continued to deliver war materials to his men. The sight of the steadily arriving food, water, and weapons had sapped the morale of Modran’s soldiers, as they contrasted their plight with those of their Akkadian enemies.

Earlier in the evening another disaster had befallen Modran’s army. The Akkadian slingers had done far more than just disrupt his night attack. With a handful of stones flung through the darkness, they had exposed his plan of attack and unnerved his soldiers.

The insignificant raid had changed the order of battle from a night attack to a full assault at dawn. With it, the certainty of victory had vanished, too, and tomorrow promised another savage conflict. Modran’s anger seethed at every delay.

Regrouping his men took far longer than he expected. Fueling his rage, none of Modran’s supposedly fearless commanders, so loud and boastful when the march started from Zanbil, had offered to lead the attack. Finally Lord Modran and General Martiya had decided the marching order for the morning’s battle.

Every one of his subcommanders knew tomorrow’s fight would be brutal and bloody. They’d come close to breaking Eskkar’s line in the last encounter, but this one promised to be even more vicious.

Although the Akkadians had suffered heavy losses of their own, the Elamite soldiers recognized the truth — Eskkar’s soldiers were not going to flee in terror, not going to retreat, not going to give ground. They had shown their enemies that they were willing to die on their feet and fighting to the last to defend the Pass.

No such beliefs supported Modran’s soldiers. They fought because their leaders ordered them to. Thoughts of quick conquests and easy lootings in the lush countryside of the Land Between the Rivers had vanished. Without that lure, and confined within the Dellen Pass, the old bitterness between the disparate groups that comprised the army returned.

No matter who won tomorrow’s battle, thousands of Elamites were going to die. No soldier wanted to be one of those dead, in order to allow others to win the war.

Both Modran and Martiya recognized the signs. The men would have to be driven into combat. To support the morning attack, and make sure his men didn’t waver, Modran’s Immortals, two thousand men, were divided into two groups.

The largest, fifteen hundred strong, would attack in a column and try to break through Eskkar’s right flank, much the same plan as the discarded night attack. The remaining five hundred would be spread out behind the rest of the assault force, ostensibly to act as the reserve, but with orders to kill any soldier who failed to press the attack or tried to retreat.

After receiving their orders, the gloomy subcommanders headed off to their own tents and their own preparations. Modran breathed a long sigh of relief. He expected to lose half his remaining men in the coming battle, possibly more. Such a thought, unthinkable only ten days ago, now meant little. He had to win. After squandering so many men, a furious King Shirudukh would strip him of his rank and wealth the moment the news reached Sushan that Akkad remained undefeated.

Suddenly Modran felt the ground beneath his feet tremble. At first he thought it was an earth shaker, a fearful prospect here inside the Dellen Pass, where cliffs could topple onto the trail and flatten hundreds of men in an instant. But the shaking went on, and he soon recognized the sound of hoofbeats. Before he had time to react, the soldiers outside his tent erupted into shouts. Horses were galloping through the camp, neighing and rolling their eyes.

One animal raced past Modran, and he saw an arrow protruding from its rump. No doubt some fool of a soldier had mistaken a horse for an Akkadian.

Some of his men tried to catch one or two of the horses, but most of the soldiers just scattered, eager to get out of the way of the half-crazed animals. Confusion swept through the camp. Men who had just turned in for the night, hoping to get a brief respite before the battle, shouted that they were under attack, that the steppes barbarians had stampeded the horses. Other voices blamed the men in the rear guard, or even some of Jedidia’s troops, forced to join Modran’s army and fight under his command.

Modran’s tent lay a quarter of a mile behind the front of the Elamite line. His cavalry’s horses, divided into ten herds, stretched nearly two miles from Modran’s quarters, in the opposite direction. From the sheer number of horses, he realized that something had spooked several herds, causing the frightened beasts to race through the entire Elamite camp.

Many of the winded horses now trotted into the peaceful and empty space between the two armies. Whatever had happened at the army’s rear to spook the animals, the stampede had finally slowed, then stopped.

The Elamite soldiers closest to the Akkadians had panicked as well, thinking their foes had launched a second night attack. A babble of voices rose into the night, with everyone speaking at once and each man knowing as little as his companions.

For the second time that night, Modran shouted for Martiya and for his other commanders. This time, it took even longer for them to reassemble. Modran, his face white with rage, ordered his leaders to get their men under control, and find out what had stampeded the horses.

Midnight had passed before a weary Martiya dismounted at Modran’s tent. “It was a barbarian raid.” Martiya shook his head. “I still can’t believe it, but one of my men recognized their war cries, watched the way they rode. Somehow they got through the rear guard without being stopped, moved half way through the horse camps until they got to the middle of the herds, then stampeded our horses.”

Modran felt his jaw drop. “Barbarians! Here? Why would they ride into the Pass, just to stampede our horses?”

“My Lord, they stampeded the horses in both directions.” Martiya kept his voice calm and his words soothing. He knew Modran’s patience had vanished. “Once they got the horses moving to the west, they turned around and raced back toward the east and Zanbil, driving a large herd ahead of them.”

“How many horses. . how many barbarians were there?”

“Not that many, maybe fifty or sixty,” Martiya said. “But they drove off more than two thousand horses. And the rear guard is a shambles, full of injured and dead men trampled underfoot. Horses are wandering around and through every camp. Some of our supplies were destroyed as well, not to mention the hundreds of injured or dead horses.”

Modran recalled how difficult it had been to find and pay for each and every one of those animals. Now many were gone, stolen by barbarians. The loss of the siege workers meant nothing, not now. “Can we get the stolen horses back?”

Martiya scratched his chin. “It’s almost seventy miles to the mouth of the Pass, and I don’t think even barbarians can control that many horses that far. Probably half will drop out and turn aside into the rocks. But at least ten or twelve hundred will be gone for good. My cavalry commander is getting his men organized and mounted. He can have three hundred men on their trail at daylight.”

“The barbarians ride at night! Why can’t your men do the same?”

“These barbarians have stolen almost two thousand horses, My Lord.” Martiya kept his tone respectful, though he, too, wanted to vent his frustration. “ If they lose a hundred of them riding in the dark, they won’t even notice.”

The more Modran thought about it, the less he liked it. By daybreak, the barbarians would have covered plenty of distance, at least ten or fifteen miles. Without leading extra horses themselves, Martiya’s men were not going to catch the raiders, not tomorrow.

Modran made up his mind. “No. Let them go. But post a strong guard at our rear, in case they decide to launch another raid.”

“That’s not what worries me,” Martiya said. “If the barbarians entered the Pass, that must mean Zanbil is gone, overrun, its supplies taken or destroyed. I don’t think we’ll be getting any help from there.”

Speechless for a moment, Modran stared at his general. The impact of Martiya’s words took a few moments to absorb. “Eskkar! Could he have done this? Turned the barbarians against us?”

“They say he was once one of them. He may have paid them to raid Zanbil and disrupt our supply line. It would explain why none of your messengers to Zanbil have returned.”

“Then we’ve no food coming,” Modran said. “We need those supplies now more than ever.”

Martiya took a deep breath. “If we want to eat and drink anything tomorrow, we’re going to have to take food from the Akkadians.”

Modran found himself clutching at the hilt of his sword, still belted around his waist. “What should we do about tomorrow’s attack?”

“Our soldiers are uneasy over the idea of barbarians behind them. They’re worried we’ll be attacked again. Many of them want to turn back.”

“Damn the cowards!” Modran’s bellow of rage echoed off the cliff. “A handful of men dead and some horses stolen by barbarian scum, and our men are frightened to death? Put a few of the weaklings to the sword. That should silence the rest. Tell the men the horses mean nothing, that we won’t need them once we’ve crushed the Akkadians.”

Modran’s anger and frustration threatened to rise to the surface. He took a deep breath, and tried to regain control of his emotions. “Martiya, tell the men that there’s no food in Zanbil. Tell them that as soon as we defeat these accursed Akkadians, every man will have his pay tripled for the rest of the war. That should put some courage in their backbones.”

Martiya glanced up at the moon. More than half the night had passed. “Perhaps it might be better, My Lord, to wait another day before attacking Eskkar’s lines? That would give the men time to get some rest and recover their will to fight.”

“The longer we wait, the stronger Eskkar becomes. Even now, our men are beginning to doubt that we can win. Some are saying foreign gods protect the Akkadians, and that Eskkar has never been defeated, cannot be defeated. The more time our soldiers have to dwell on such thoughts, the weaker we become. We attack at first light as planned. And remind them that any man who falters will be killed on the spot. The Immortals will break Eskkar’s battle line.”

Martiya saw that Modran’s mind was made up. “Yes, My Lord.” Martiya turned and strode off into the night. But deep within his heart, doubt about tomorrow’s battle had already taken hold.

Lord Modran got little sleep the rest of the night. He and Martiya found themselves forced to answer a host of questions. The stampede had disrupted not only the rhythm of the camp, but the very position of the men. The cavalry, most to be held in reserve for the final effort, still had not collected enough mounts for the three thousand man reserve. Every commander and even subcommanders sought guidance and clarification of the simplest orders.

When he did finally lie down, alone in his tent, Modran found he could do little more than toss and turn. Eskkar and his puny force had to be defeated, destroyed. Had to. Not since Modran’s youth had he fought in a battle to the death. Tomorrow’s fight had to be won, or Modran faced death as surely as if Eskkar shoved a sword into his stomach.

When Modran did slip into an uneasy sleep, dark dreams made him toss and turn. But soon enough, his servant woke him.

“It’s time, My Lord. Dawn approaches.”

Rubbing his eyes, Modran pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll come.” He laced on his sandals and armor, then belted the sword around his waist. Other than that, he’d laid down fully dressed.

A single torch burned outside his tent. Martiya, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, approached the war table. Modran stood and watched as Martiya went through the final preparations. At last, Martiya gave the order, and the commanders departed to join their men.

By the time the first glimmer of gray weakened the black of night, the Elamite army waited in their ranks, ready to attack. Modran would pace his horse alongside his infantry, until he reached his observation post just beyond range of the Akkadian long bows. There he would take command of the cavalry reserves and wait for the breakthrough. Martiya and his staff would lead the actual assault.

The eastern sky turned pink, outlining the mountains to the rear. As soon as the first rays of dawn banished enough of the night for his men to see their feet, Martiya gave the order. A drum began to beat. The third Elamite attack had begun.

Earlier that night, Eskkar, Alexar, and the other commanders stood at the center of their battle line, staring down the slope into the darkness. All of them had heard the sound of horses on the move, and the tumult from the Elamite position. At first Eskkar thought a night attack by the Elamite cavalry was in progress.

The Akkadians, sleeping at their positions, roused themselves and prepared to receive another assault. But instead of war cries emanating from the enemy position, they heard only shouts of confusion and the whinnying of horses.

Shappa’s slingers, out in the empty space between the two hosts, reported that riderless horses were wandering up the slope, picking their way through the dead bodies that littered the ground. Eskkar counted at least twenty of the curious animals, who trotted almost all the way to the ranks of the Akkadians before they decided to turn back down the slope.

“One of their horse herds must have stampeded,” Alexar said. “Must have run right through the camp.”

“One herd wouldn’t make that much noise,” Muta said. “That sounded like a lot of horses.”

“Whatever it was, I don’t think they’re going to try again tonight,” Eskkar said, thinking out loud. “They’ll need time to recover their mounts, and then position themselves once again for the attack.”

“If there were more than one herd stampeding, then they may postpone another assault,” Drakis said.

Eskkar thought about that. A big stampede would normally require a day or two to recover the horses. But here in the Pass, the beasts had no place to scatter. Nor had they proved very useful. “No, I think they’ll still come tomorrow. Modran hasn’t any time to waste chasing after loose horses. He’s running low on food and water, and by now Sargon and the warriors will have cut the Elamite supply line. Either Modran turns back, or he throws every man against us tomorrow.”

“The warriors have had enough time to reach Zanbil,” Alexar said. “Do you think Sargon had anything to do with the stampede?”

“On most days,” Eskkar said, “I’d say only a fool would ride seventy miles into the Dellen Pass and challenge Modran’s army. But some of Sargon’s warrior friends are eager for glory. Remember Chinua leading the charge at the Battle of Isin? They might have decided to try and steal some horses.”

“Well, whatever happened,” Alexar said, “it’s not likely to help us tomorrow.”

That seemed true enough, Eskkar decided. “Tell the men to stand down, and get some more rest. Tomorrow promises to be a long day.”

Garal had waited until Den’rack and Sargon gave the order to turn back. He, too, wheeled his horse about, but moved to the side, slowing his mount until the other warriors had put their horses to the gallop. As soon as the last of the Sargon’s riders passed Garal by, he turned again and headed west once more, leaning low against the neck of his horse as he raced back up the Pass.

Racing through the darkness as fast as he could, Garal managed to catch up to the rear of the stampeding horses just as the Elamite guards and soldiers rushed into the gap, trying to stop the panicked animals. All the same, plenty of horses ran about in every direction, and the disorganized efforts of the Elamites kept the frightened mounts moving forward. The rush of the herd to the west continued, though most of the horses slowed their pace to a canter.

Clinging to his horse, Garal urged the animals onward. He kept in the middle of the trail. Whenever the horses near him began to slow down, he jabbed the point of his knife into the nearest flank. That resulted in the wounded animal neighing in pain and breaking into another gallop, which helped keep all of them moving.

The horses, now spread out over the width of the Pass, continued their movement to the west and through the main force of the enemy. Fortunately for Garal, the ground now sloped downward, making it easier for the horses to keep on the move.

The galloping horses had kicked the occasional Elamite campfires into ashes. None of the milling soldiers thought to look closely at the running horses, nor did they expect to see one man hunched over, his silhouette barely visible in the darkness. One mile passed, and still no one had sounded an alarm. Even those who did notice him never imagined that an enemy would be so bold as to ride through their camp.

Another half mile passed under his horse’s hooves, and Garal had not yet reached the leading edge of the Elamites. The number of horses still running had diminished, and he guessed that now only a few hundred continued their rush through the Pass. Regardless, the soldiers moving about fixed all their efforts on getting the mounts under control, and as far as Garal could tell, none of them had seen him as he slipped by.

At last Garal saw blackness ahead, the empty space that marked the end of the Elamite’s position. Two small campfires still burned, and he picked out a line of enemy sentries. Nevertheless, most of them were still focused on the horses, while the rest kept their eyes to the front, in case the Akkadians should try to attack.

Urging on a handful of horses, Garal rode right between two guards. If they saw him, they failed to give the alarm, and no arrows hissed by his head or into his back.

Once in the open space, Garal sat upright on his horse. About twenty mounts still trotted along, turning aside now that they had reached an open space of relative calm. He guided his mount alongside a weary horse and grabbed its dangling halter. With two horses, he might survive should he lose his own.

Ahead, he glimpsed three more campfires, strung out in a line across the width of the Pass, that had to mark Eskkar’s battle line. Now all Garal had to worry about was getting an arrow in his chest from one of the Akkadians.

He took one last glance over his shoulder, and decided that he’d ridden far enough from the Elamite front line. Taking a deep breath, he called out to the unseen sentries. “Akkadians! Akkadians! I bring a message from Sargon of Akkad!”

Slowing his tired horses to a walk, he repeated the words again and again. A shadow flitted across his path, but Garal didn’t slow. The Akkadians would have their own scouts out in the empty space between the lines. Now he had to hope one of these didn’t put a shaft into him.

“I bring a message from Sargon of Akkad!” The line of campfires drew closer. Now he was less than a hundred and fifty paces away.

“Halt! Stay where you are!”

Garal pulled back on his halter, and raised both hands high in the air. “I am Garal of the Ur Nammu, and I carry a message to King Eskkar from his son, Sargon of Akkad.”

Voices whispered in the night, but Garal couldn’t make out the words. Then another figure rose up right before him, and a large hand grasped the halter rope. “Keep your hands away from your weapons.”

Garal did as the man ordered. After a moment, his horse started forward again, this time responding to the tugging from the man leading it. Garal noticed movement behind him, and glimpsed another shadowy figure guiding the second horse. He knew that armed men watched his every move, ready to kill him.

Ahead, Garal saw a line of spearmen, the bronze tips of their upright weapons glinting even in the near darkness. A few of the spears lowered just enough to point at his chest. Then the line parted, and Garal and his extra horse passed through the ranks and into the Akkadian camp.

A brawny arm reached up and pulled Garal from his horse. Other hands seized his weapons, casting them onto the ground. A man on either side grasped his arms, and they half led, half dragged their prisoner away from the front line.

“Who are you?”

The man spoke even before Garal stopped moving. A soldier with a torch appeared, and waved it in front of Garal’s face.

“I am Garal, of the Ur Nammu, son of Chinua. I come with a message from Sargon of Akkad, for King Eskkar.”

“Bind his hands,” a voice ordered.

The men holding him jerked his arms down and behind his back, but before they could fasten the rope, another voice ordered them to stop.

“I know this one,” Drakis said, peering into Garal’s face. “I’ve seen him in the Ur Nammu camp. Let him go.”

Garal took in a deep breath and let it out with relief. Death had come closer to him in the last hundred paces of his journey than in his wild passage through the Elamites.

“I know you, too, Commander Drakis. I am glad to see you are still alive.”

Drakis laughed. “Well, tomorrow might change that. But follow me. I’m sure the Captain will want to talk to you.”

A moment passed before Garal realized that ‘Captain’ was another title for King Eskkar. With a most un-warrior like sigh of satisfaction, Garal followed Drakis and his men through the darkness.

“And you managed to slip through the entire Elamite army?” Eskkar still couldn’t quite believe what the young warrior had accomplished, even after hearing the story for the second time.

Garal, with food and water in front of him, nodded. “Yes, My Lord. But the Elamites will attack soon. The messengers we captured revealed that Modran has run low on both food and water.”

Eskkar glanced up at the night sky, full of stars. “We think they will come today, with the dawn. Modran cannot retreat without at least making one more effort to break our lines.”

Garal opened his mouth, then closed it again. No sense in asking whether King Eskkar thought he could repel the assault. There was only one answer to that question. “We have weakened his cavalry, and driven off many of his horses.”

“The loss of a few horses will not change Modran’s plans,” Eskkar said. “But you have done far more damage than you think. Your ride through their lines will have many of his men looking over their shoulders in tomorrow’s fight. And the stampede will have robbed them of much of their sleep this night. Before they can advance, they will have to round up those loose animals. The men who face us tomorrow will be tired from lack of sleep, and weakened by the doubt you have placed in their minds. That is worth much more than the horses they lost. The news you bring of Sargon and Subutai is most welcome. You and the warriors have struck a heavy blow against Lord Modran.”

Garal nodded, but Eskkar saw the disappointment on the young warrior’s face. “You have done a brave deed, Garal, braver than anything any warrior has ever done. More important, you have given us the will to fight. Now we know for certain that Modran’s supplies are exhausted, and that he will soon have to retreat. That knowledge will put bronze into the muscles of our spearmen and archers tomorrow.”

“My Lord, when you fought against the Sumerians at Isin, my father Chinua rode at your side and led the charge. If you would permit, I would like to fight by your side this day.”

“I would welcome the sword of a man as brave as yourself. But be aware, that the arrows will fly thick where I stand.”

“I will take my chance, as will your other soldiers.”

“Then you will have it. But it may be, Garal, that you can help far more by taking another task. Let me tell you what we’ve planned.”

When Garal learned about tomorrow’s battle plan, he nodded. “Yes, that will be as dangerous. I’m sure I can do more good with your horsemen than fighting at your side.”

Eskkar turned to Muta and Drakis. “Make sure Garal has a good supply of arrows and as much leather armor as he can carry. He’s going to need it.”