Dawn of Empire

1

The eastern bank of the river Tigris, two hundred miles north of the great sea…

Awake, Eskkar, awake now! Nicar sent for you. You must come at once!” Eskkar realized the words had been spoken several times, accompanied by vigorous shaking. Now they ceased being mere sounds and became instead a message, one that slowly found its way through the haze that still clutched at his mind and body from last night’s drinking.

“Enough,” Eskkar grunted, swinging an arm clumsily at the messenger.

But the nimble youth dodged easily. Eskkar pushed himself up to a sitting position on his hard pallet, while the room revolved around him and the blood pounded in his head from the sudden motion. His throat felt dry, like the gritty dirt floor beneath his naked feet, and his skull seemed ready to split apart at any moment as he paid the price for last night’s vinegary wine.

“Water,” he growled. After a few moments, the messenger placed a wooden cup in Eskkar’s shaking hands. He swallowed a few mouthfuls, though much of the liquid dribbled down his chin onto his bare chest. His eyes refused to focus, and the bright sunlight that streamed through the open doorway into the shadowy soldiers’ quarters added to his misery.

As soon as Eskkar lowered the cup, the boy started again. “Hurry, Eskkar. Nicar awaits you now! You must come at once.”

What in the name of the gods could Nicar want from him? But Nicar’s name and position as the ruler of the village of Orak started him moving, stumbling first to the rank chamber pot inside the soldiers’ common room, then back to his pallet to don his tunic.

Leaving the barracks, his eyes half — shut against the sun, Esk kar managed to find his way to the well. He leaned against the rough stones for a moment, then upended the bucket to splash water on his face before drinking.

Somewhat refreshed, Esk kar looked up, surprised to see the sun so high. Demons below, he must have drunk a whole skinful of that bitter date wine. He cursed himself for being a fool.

When Esk kar turned away he saw a handful of guards, men who should have been busy at their daily tasks, standing uneasily near him. “Where is Ariamus?” he asked no one in particular, his voice sounding hoarse in his ears. Ariamus, captain of the guard, maintained the few laws of Orak and defended the village from bandits and marauders.

“Ariamus is gone,” a gray — bearded veteran answered, spitting in the dirt to show his disgust. “He’s run off, taken a dozen men with him, as well as extra horses and arms. The talk in the market says that barbarians are heading south, coming toward Orak.”

Esk kar let the words penetrate as he studied their faces. He saw fear and uncertainty, mixed in with the shock of losing their master. No wonder they looked toward him. If Ariamus had run off, then Esk kar would be in charge, at least until a new captain could be chosen. That would explain the summons from Nicar.

The grinning messenger plucked at Esk kar’s tunic. He refused to hurry, taking his time to draw another bucket from the well. He washed his hands and face before returning to the barracks to lace on his patched and worn sandals. Only then did he follow the boy through the winding streets to the imposing mud — brick and stone house of Nicar, Orak’s leading merchant and foremost among the Five ruling Families that dictated the daily com-ings and goings of the village.

The youth pulled Esk kar past the gatekeeper and into the house, then guided him up the narrow steps to the upper rooms. The house seemed quiet, with none of the usual visitors waiting their turn to see the busy merchant.

Nicar stood on the tiny balcony that looked out over the village. Quite a bit shorter than Esk kar, the gray — haired merchant carried the extra weight around his middle that marked him as a man of wealth.

Esk kar grunted something he hoped sounded like a greeting and stood still as the most important and richest man in the village looked him over.

Esk kar realized Nicar was studying him with the same care used when selecting the best slave from a bad lot.

Nearly three years ago, Esk kar had limped into Orak, with nothing but a sword on his back and an infected leg wound. Since then he’d seen Nicar many times, but Orak’s most important person had never paid any particular attention to the tall, dark — haired subcommander who rarely spoke and never smiled.

When Nicar finished his scrutiny, he turned away and looked out over the village. Suddenly Esk kar felt uncomfortable in his shabby tunic and worn sandals.

“Well, Nicar, what do you want?” The words came out harsher than intended.

“I’m not sure what I want, Esk kar,” the merchant answered. “You know Ariamus is gone?”

Esk kar nodded.

“You may not know that the barbarians have recently crossed the Tigris, far to the north. The killing and burning have already begun there.”

It took a moment before Nicar’s words struggled through the vapors cloud-ing Esk kar’s mind. Finally he understood their meaning. So rumor spoke the truth for once. He leaned heavily against the balcony wall, aware of his aching head. His belly cramped painfully, and for a moment he thought he would vomit. Esk kar struggled to keep control of his thoughts and his stomach.

Nicar continued. “From the far north, through the foothills, then down the plain toward the river.” He hesitated, to give Esk kar time to comprehend his words. “They’re moving steadily south. It’s likely they’ll turn in this direction, though it will be months before they arrive.”

Nicar spoke calmly, but Esk kar heard a faint hint of fear and resigna-tion in his voice.

Esk kar ran his fingers through his unruly hair, then fingered the thin beard that outlined his chin. “Do you know which clan?” Even after all these years, the word barbarian grated on his ears.

“I believe they’re called the Alur Meriki. They may be the same clan that raided here last time.”

Esk kar grimaced. His own birth clan. Not his people anymore, not for many years, not since they’d cast him out. “The Alur Meriki are a fierce clan with many men and horses.”

“What clan are you from, Esk kar? Or is that a question I shouldn’t ask?”

“Ask what you like. But I never raided this place, if that’s what you wish to know. I had barely started riding with the warriors when they killed my family.”

“Is that what happened? Is that why you left?”

Esk kar bit his lip, cursing at himself for even mentioning his past. Even the ignorant villagers knew warriors never left their clans willingly, only in disgrace.

Nicar let the silence lengthen, until Esk kar felt compelled to answer.

“I didn’t leave, Nicar. I ran for my life. I was lucky to get away.”

“I see. You’re right, it makes no difference.”

Esk kar’s thoughts returned to the Alur Meriki. So his family’s clan marched toward Orak. No, marched didn’t properly convey the slow and steady movement of the steppes people. Migration came closest to a real description of the steady movement that might take months to advance but a few miles. “How long have you known of their coming, Nicar?”

Nicar stroked his gray — speckled beard. “Word came to me three days ago. I told only Ariamus. He cautioned me to tell no one for a few days while he considered how to defend the village.”

Esk kar jerked his head in derision, the sudden movement sending a wave of sharp pain through his head that made him regret the gesture.

Ariamus, as leader of the village’s small garrison, had certainly planned well. But his plans hadn’t been for the defense of the village, nor had they included Esk kar, his lowly third in command. The second in command, one of Ariamus’s fawning friends, had died a week before from the pox.

Esk kar already knew he would not be promoted. He’d never bothered to toady up to Ariamus.

Instead, two days ago Ariamus ordered Esk kar off on a chase after an inconsequential runaway slave, a task that might have taken a week except for the fortunate accident of the foolish slave breaking his leg in some rocks. Esk kar remembered the brief look of surprise on Ariamus’s face when he’d returned yesterday afternoon.

Then last night a comradely Ariamus had invited the soldiers to the tavern for wine and song, paying for the powerful spirits that kept flowing long into the night. Esk kar should have been suspicious after the first drink, since the tight — fi sted Ariamus never bought more than one mug of barley ale for any of his men. But tired, thirsty, and smug with satisfaction at recovering the slave so quickly, Esk kar hadn’t noticed. Again he cursed himself for being so easily tricked.

Esk kar’s head began to throb again, and his throat felt dry.

“Well, Nicar, what do you expect me to do? Go after Ariamus and the others? I’m sure he took the youngest and wildest men. He’s probably stolen the best horses as well. He’ll be long gone by the time we’re ready to give chase, and with a dozen fighting men he can match any force we send after him.”

The hoarseness returned to Esk kar’s voice, and he could scarcely get the last few words out.

Nicar recognized the rasp in his visitor’s throat, and called out for a servant. The same boy who’d escorted Esk kar, no doubt waiting on the steps outside, appeared at once. Nicar turned to his visitor. “Water or wine?”

Esk kar wanted wine, wanted it badly, and wanted it right now, but he’d shown enough stupidity for a while.

“Water, for a start. Perhaps wine later, eh, Nicar?” Esk kar didn’t try to conceal the sarcasm. He had lived in Orak for almost three years but had entered the fine house of Nicar only once before, and then only to deliver a message. Now Nicar offered him wine, almost with his own hand. He wondered what would come next.

While the boy poured a cup of water, Esk kar thought about the captain of the guard, who might easily have looted the village before he vanished.

Esk kar briefly wondered why his own throat hadn’t been cut. The gods knew he’d argued with Ariamus numerous times. The thought of himself lying in bed helpless, a drunken pig ready to be butchered, sent a shiver through him. Evidently Ariamus hadn’t considered him worth killing.

Esk kar drank some water, then turned back toward the balcony. Despite the grim news, the cool drink made him feel better. He remembered his manners. “Thank you, Nicar. But I ask you again. Do you want me to chase after Ariamus?”

“No, I don’t want him back. I was fool enough to trust him to defend Orak. Now I’d kill him if I could. What I want is to make the village ready for defense. We must be ready to fight off the barbarians.”

The thought of the soft merchant fighting the hard — bitten Ariamus almost made Esk kar smile. He started to speak, then hesitated, trying to think as he rubbed his hand over the rough surface of the balcony wall.

Nicar hadn’t summoned Esk kar to his home for casual conversation. No, Nicar wanted to know what could be done for Orak. More to the point, what Esk kar could do for Orak.

The thirty — odd fighting men who remained would likely follow Esk kar, at least for a while, either out of loyalty or necessity. Most had women and children in the village or had grown too old to go looting across the countryside.

Esk kar thought of his thirty — one seasons. He’d been fighting since he turned fourteen, when he’d killed his first man with a knife thrust in the back. His father, a leader of twenty, had somehow offended Maskim — Xul, the ruler of the Alur Meriki, and the punishment had been death for the whole family. Esk kar had seen his mother and younger brother die, and his sister carried off. But the man who killed his brother would never kill again. He never learned what sent Maskim — Xul’s enraged guards to his father’s tent. Esk kar managed to slip away in the darkness, never to return to the campfires of his kindred.

He would have to leave Orak. He couldn’t chance being captured. His former clansmen would kill him merely for leaving the clan. And if they remembered Esk kar’s family, his fate would be even worse.

Esk kar brought his thoughts back to the present and realized that Nicar had continued to study him.

“We’ll have to run, Nicar. Even with Ariamus and his men still here, the village would fall. Thirty, even a hundred soldiers will make no difference. If the clans are truly in migration, there will be many hundreds of warriors, maybe even a thousand.”

Esk kar shook his head at the idea. A thousand barbarians, an incredible number of fighting men, mounted and well armed, could sweep any force of mere villagers aside without pausing.

Nicar said nothing, drumming his fingers on the same stones that Eskkar still gripped. “No. We must stay. Stay and fight. Orak must be held.

If we run, there will be nothing left when we return, and we’ll have to rebuild all over again.”

He heard determination in Nicar’s words. They turned toward each other at the same moment, standing eye to eye.

“This village is mine, Esk kar. When I arrived here, Orak was hardly more than a collection of mud huts. I built it myself, along with the other Families. Twenty — seven years I’ve been here, and all of us have prospered nearly every day. Everything I have is here. Never have so many men lived before in one place, in safety, with food and drink and tools to share. Look around you, Esk kar. Do you want to return to the ways of your fathers, living in tents, fighting each day for food, killing others to take what is theirs? Or do you want to dig your food out of the earth, at the mercy of any band of murderers?”

Esk kar, like everyone else, knew what Nicar had accomplished. He also knew that the village had existed here for uncounted years before Nicar arrived. Nor had Nicar done it alone. Other powerful traders and farmers had worked closely with him to rule Orak, and together their fortunes and power had grown, until they reserved the title of “Noble” for themselves and their sons. For years, the Five Families had settled disputes and recon-ciled customs, as their Houses and influence increased.

“Nicar, I know what Orak means to you. But even if we managed to drive off a small band, they’d only return with more warriors. If the main force of the Alur Meriki comes against us…”

“No, Esk kar. I will not hear it.” Nicar’s hand smacked down on the balcony stones. “Ten years have passed since they last came. That time there was no warning. I remember how men fought to get into the boats, to get across the river. Many were trapped in the village. They became slaves or died. Those who got to the other bank, we ran until our hearts were ready to burst. When we returned, nothing remained. The huts had all been destroyed, the crops burned, the animals slaughtered and dumped in the wells. It took two years to rebuild then. Two wasted years. Do you know how long it would take us to rebuild now?”

Esk kar shook his head. Two years seemed like plenty of time to replace mud huts and plant a few more crops.

“Orak is more than twice as big as it was then. Now I think it would take five years to rebuild, assuming our trade doesn’t go to another village up or down the river. Orak might never grow so great again. I cannot waste five years, Esk kar. I will not.”

Esk kar had lived among villagers long enough to understand their fears, but to complain about raiders merely wasted breath. “Nicar, bandits from the north and east have been raiding this land for generations. Nothing can be done about it. At least this time you’ll have plenty of time to prepare your… departure.”

Nicar looked out over the village again. “You’re like all the others. They all say nothing can be done. You surprise me, Esk kar. You’re supposed to be a fighting man, and yet you’re afraid to fight.”

“Watch your words, Nicar. I have fought the Alur Meriki before. But I’m not a fool. Much as I’d enjoy killing more of them, I won’t fight where there’s no hope of winning. If there were some way to hold them off, if something could be done… but they’re just too strong. You’d be better off taking your gold and leaving.”

“No. I will not run, and I will not give my hard — earned gold to the barbarians! Better to use it to try and defend Orak. I’m too old to start over again. This village is mine, and I will stay. That is, if you can defend Orak.”

“Nothing can stop the Alur Meriki.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps nothing can be done. But before we run away again, I want to know why we cannot defend ourselves against them.

I want to understand why Orak, with so many people, is so helpless. Tell me that, Esk kar.”

Nicar was right about the village. In all his travels, Esk kar had never seen a village as big. A day seldom went by without someone moving into Orak. A few even used a new word to describe it, calling it a city, the City, the biggest gathering of people ever built. A place with a real stockade made from rough — cut logs and two solid gates to deny entrance. But Eskkar knew that the palisade and gates served only to deter petty thieves or small bands of marauders, not a migration of the steppes.

Of all the raiders who plagued the land, the steppes barbarians aroused the most terror. Ruthless warriors and superb horsemen, no force could stand against them. No force ever had, at least not in Esk kar’s memory, or even in the legends of others.

“Nicar, where were the barbarians found? How far away are they?”

“Many miles across the steppes to the far north,” Nicar answered. “It will be midsummer before they reach this place. The great curve of the Tigris will force them far to the east before they can head south. But this time their path seems to point toward us. It may be more than a raiding party that comes to Orak next summer. Word of our prosperity has reached even them, so the traders tell me.”

“So we have nearly six months to prepare. Of course, raiding parties could be here sooner, Nicar, much sooner.”

The steppes people always had two or three groups of raiders oper-ating around the tribe’s center, looking for opportunities to take horses, tools, weapons, or women, and not necessarily in that order, although none would pass up a good horse to waste time on a woman. A village this size would attract them as it attracted everyone. There might even be almost as many people here as in the migrating tribe. Strange he hadn’t thought of that before.

Esk kar drained his water cup. The sharp pain behind his eyes had lessened, replaced by a dull throb. Nicar’s earlier words came back to him, and now they seemed to contain a challenge. “You want to understand why we must run, Nicar, is that it? It’s because we don’t have warriors. We have farmers, tradesmen, and a few dozen men trained to fight. The Alur Meriki can send hundreds of warriors against us. Even soldiers won’t fight against those odds.”

“If we fight them from behind our palisade…”

“The palisade will not stand. A few ropes over the top and they’ll pull it down.”

“Then we need a stronger barrier,” Nicar said, a little more forcefully.

“Could such a barrier be constructed in time?”

Esk kar glanced out over the balcony. The fence that surrounded Orak stood almost directly below him, only a dozen paces away, and he studied it as if seeing it for the first time. Not high enough, not strong enough, he knew. Orak needed a solid wall. A mud wall, if it could be built high enough and strong enough, might give the barbarians pause. But even a wall wouldn’t stop fighting men. Well, one thing at a time. They just needed something with enough resistance to make the attackers move on to easier pickings.

“I need to think about this, Nicar. What you ask may not be possible.

Give me some time. I’ll come back to you by sundown and tell you what I think.”

Nicar nodded, almost as if expecting the delay. “Come for dinner, then, after sundown. We’ll talk again.”

Esk kar bowed and left the house. He walked through the twisted lanes back to the soldiers’ compound, thinking about Nicar’s words. At the barracks he ignored the idle men standing around and went instead to the stables. He called for a horse and while the stable boys readied it, Esk kar crossed back into the lane. He approached the nearest street vendor and spent the last of his copper coins to buy some bread and cheese.

Shoving the food into his pouch, Esk kar filled a bag with water, then mounted up and rode slowly through the village. He passed through the main gate and nodded to the guard who looked at him nervously, no doubt wondering whether he’d be returning. Rumors must be spreading, fanned by the news of Ariamus’s sudden departure.

The fresh air cleared the last effects of the wine from his mind, and Esk kar gave his full attention to the spirited horse, which seemed equally glad to escape the village’s confines. He put the beast to an easy canter until he reached the top of a small hill about two miles east of the village.

From this vantage, he had an excellent view of both Orak and the river Tigris that looped behind it.

He reined in the horse and began eating the good bread and poor cheese he’d purchased, letting many different thoughts drift through his head. To his surprise, he had several ideas of what could and could not be done. Licking the last of the cheese from his fingers, he studied the village, almost as if seeing it for the first time.

Orak sat on a broad slab of hard earth and stone that forced the river to bend around it, so that the fast — flowing currents protected almost half the village from direct approach. The bedrock supporting the village had once been surrounded by marshland. As the settlement had grown, farmers had drained the marshes, growing crops and building huts on the recovered land. Dozens of canals, large and small, crisscrossed the countryside around the village, bringing water from the river to the farms.

Perhaps the land could be flooded again, leaving only one main approach to the village’s gates. In his mind’s eye, Esk kar pictured a line of archers atop a wall, standing shoulder to shoulder, launching flights of arrows into a swarm of mounted attackers beneath them. The bow, he decided. Only that weapon could make the soft dirt — eaters equal to Alur Meriki warriors, and then only if the bowmen had a wall to hide behind.

Faced with a strong wall, most of the mounted warrior’s advantages disappeared. No storm of arrows to devastate the defenders, who could then be overwhelmed and cut apart by the charging riders. Against such a wall, the Alur Meriki’s greater physical strength and skill with sword and lance would be lessened. Yes, it might work. If Orak could build the wall, the village might have a chance. Whether Orak could transform itself remained to be seen.

Orak resembled every other village Esk kar had seen. Small huts built from river mud and straw accounted for most of the dwellings, though the homes of the rich merchants and nobles tended to be much larger or two — story affairs. A fence surrounded the village, but numerous huts and tents had sprung up outside the stockade, including some that, against Nicar’s orders, butted up against the structure.

As for the villagers, they, too, were much the same as people everywhere. Most had few possessions: a cotton tunic, a wooden food bowl, perhaps a few crude tools. But the farms around Orak yielded plenty of grain, which the bakers turned into a hearty bread, the one clean smell that constantly scented the village air.

The farmers produced enough not only to feed themselves and their families, but enough extra to trade or sell in the village. That surplus filled Orak with people who didn’t need to farm to survive, merchants, traders, carpenters, shopkeepers, innkeepers, smiths, and dozens of other tradesmen. These skilled laborers provided any craft required to support the village, the river traffic, and the surrounding farms, taking payment in grain as well as the coins hammered out by the wealthy traders and nobles.

Only its size made Orak different from any other place Esk kar had visited. The village had been large when he arrived, and since then it had nearly doubled. In his travels Esk kar had learned that the larger the village, the easier he would be accepted. A big village always needed men to defend it, so a skilled fi ghting man who knew horses could usually fi nd employment and a safe place to sleep at night, even if the villagers might laugh behind his back at his barbarian heritage. They seldom laughed to his face; the battle scars on his body intimidated most villagers. At least they didn’t drive him away in their fear, something that had occurred more than once in his wanderings.

Those wanderings had taken him as far as the great sea to the south.

Three years ago, Esk kar decided to return to the land of his youth. He’d thrown in with a trader’s caravan destined for Orak, one of half a dozen guards hired to safeguard the merchant’s goods. When twenty bandits attacked the caravan at night, the outnumbered guards, caught by surprise, had been overwhelmed. Wounded, Esk kar and a few servants had escaped, reaching Orak a week later. The servants he’d rescued had not only vouch-safed him, but they stood by him until he recovered. Deciding to stay for a few months, Esk kar joined the force that guarded the village as a common soldier, and never got around to leaving. Since then he managed to work his way up to third in command, riding most of the patrols and chasing after runaway slaves or petty thieves.

Putting thoughts of the past aside, he decided to look at Orak as the Alur Meriki would. Taking a gulp from the water bag, Esk kar rode down the hill and headed toward the river.

The breeze refreshed him, the air cool and invigorating. Esk kar often longed for the feel of the wind in his face. The feel of a horse on the open lands always called to him, sometimes making each day spent in the village’s confines seem a day of torment. You’ll always be a barbarian, even though your own people cast you out. For years he had drifted aimlessly across the lands, scorned by the villagers and farmers he encountered, even beaten and abused.

Three years he had lived in Orak, longer than he had ever spent anywhere, and lately he’d thought about moving on, frustrated by Ariamus and his petty orders. Perhaps now was the time to forget Orak, move east and visit lands still new to him.

No matter what Nicar wanted, trying to fight off the Alur Meriki would fail, and simply get him killed for his trouble. Esk kar owed the villagers nothing. To them, he was just another barbarian, just as capable of murdering them in their sleep. He’d seen the distrust and fear in their faces often enough.

The idea of leaving tempted him, but only for a moment. A new place would be no better than Orak and probably a good deal worse. He’d have to start again from the bottom, a mere soldier, treated scarcely better than a callow recruit. No, he felt the same way as Nicar. Esk kar wouldn’t run away to start that life all over again. Not if he could find another option, especially one that didn’t end with him dead.

The Alur Meriki had murdered his family, driven him from the clan, hounded him across the plains, and nearly killed him more than once. Eskkar hated the thought of running from them again. Assuming something could be done that didn’t leave him with his throat cut, he wanted the chance to strike an avenging blow against them for a change, to repay them for his father’s death.

If he could accomplish it, Orak and Nicar would owe him much. As captain of the guard, he’d have more than enough gold to settle down for the rest of his days. Perhaps he’d join the ranks of the nobles and become one of Orak’s rulers. That would be almost as satisfying as crushing a part of the Alur Meriki.

Esk kar put the fanciful thoughts aside. He studied the landscape, riding slowly to the southwest, stopping from time to time to examine the approaches to Orak, picturing what the steppes people would see when they turned their eyes here.

He rode for nearly three hours, until he completed a circle around Orak and found himself back at the hilltop where he’d begun his observa-tions. Esk kar dismounted and sat down with his back to a rock. He let his mind turn over the ideas he had this day.

No one had ever called him quick in his wits, but Esk kar could build a simple plan as well as the next. That ability, plus his size, strength, and quickness with sword and knife, had won him promotion until he stood at Ariamus’s side. Now Esk kar stood alone, and Nicar had asked him to do something no man had ever done before-prevent the steppes people from looting and destroying the village.

The sheer scope of what needed to be done threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to remember that a plan had many parts and that each part could be considered separately.

Carefully, he reviewed the many tasks needed to defend the village, repeating them out loud several times to make sure he’d remember all of them. When he finished, Esk kar saw that the sun had moved far into the western sky. Grunting a little, he stood and stretched, then he mounted his horse and retraced his path back to the village and his appointment with Nicar. At least he knew what he would say tonight, though he doubted Orak’s leading merchant would like his words.