by Sam Barone
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.”
Chapter 33
Six hundred miles to the southwest . . .
On the same day that Eskkar and Lord Modran’s armies faced each other in the Dellen Pass for the second time, Hathor and King Naxos of Isin sat on their horses and surveyed the Elamite cavalry moving toward them. Midday had come and gone, as the Akkadian leaders watched the Elamite horse fighters, close to seven thousand strong.
“They ride well,” Hathor commented.
“Plenty of open plains east of the Zagros Mountains,” Naxos said. “I’m sure they’ve learned how to ride down helpless villagers.”
A wide stream, one of the many branches of the Tigris, separated the two forces. By now the enemy knew better than to try and force their away across a stream before they had their full strength prepared for the effort. For three days, the Akkadians had led the pursuing Elamites all over the lands to the northwest of Sumer, keeping just out of their reach.
Yesterday, however, Hathor had turned the troop toward the east again, as if returning to the countryside well north of Sumer. In the afternoon, the hard-riding Elamite vanguard had caught up with the rear guard of the Akkadians. That led to a brisk skirmish that accomplished nothing, except for fifty or so dead on either side. The encounter provided a grim warning to both armies – the final battle, whenever it occurred, would likely prove a deadly affair.
As the chase progressed, the Akkadians continued to move eastward. Farther northeast lay Akkad. No doubt the Elamites assumed the Akkadians rode toward the safety of Akkad’s walls. But such was not Hathor’s plan.
Both sides had grown weary, galloping more than thirty miles each day, always at the alert for a counterattack or ambush. Those worries added to the stress on both armies. Regardless, Naxos and Hathor had one big advantage that, hopefully, the Elamites knew nothing about.
Twice, well after darkness had fallen, the Akkadians had met up with Yavtar’s fighting boats. Upon leaving Sumer after the surprise attack, Hathor’s messengers had raced across the land and made contact with one of Yavtar’s boat captains. Once alerted to the location of the cavalry, Yavtar’s crews began the first of their own and very dangerous missions.
The day following the capture of the Horse Depot, eight boats had found the Akkadians after dark, delivering grain, food, and extra arrows to the cavalry. Two nights later, another group of seven boats had delivered much the same cargo before pushing off and vanishing into the mist that hovered over the black water.
Now, after three and a half days of hard riding, the Akkadians and Elamites studied each other across the stream.
“They’ll cross soon enough.” Naxos shaded his eyes with his hand as he stared at the Elamites. “They’re feeling more confident every day, watching us run from them.”
“We won’t be running much longer.” Hathor had developed this part of the plan himself. “It’s nearly time to set the trap.”
Naxos snorted. “Let’s hope they take the bait. We’ll be fighting for our lives if this plan you and Eskkar cooked up goes wrong.”
Hathor couldn’t hide his grin. After the successful trip through the foothills, followed by the attack on Sumer, Naxos had grudgingly conceded that Eskkar knew something about both warfare and tactics. Nevertheless, Naxos always found something to grumble about.
“Nothing in battle is certain, Naxos. But Eskkar’s idea has worked for him before, and there’s no reason to think it won’t work again. Unless you have a better plan to defeat seven thousand Elamites without losing half of our men?”
“No, not yet.” Naxos’s cheerful tone took the sting out of the words. “For now, we play our part, running from these Elamite dogs as if we’re afraid to face them. I still don’t like it.”
Nevertheless, Naxos gave the order, and the Akkadian cavalry, close to five thousand riders, moved out, once again heading east.
Hathor glanced at the midday sun, high in the cloudless sky. The hottest part of the afternoon still awaited the sweating men and horses. For the first time in three days, Hathor ordered the men to ride at a slightly slower pace. The Elamite cavalry, after they finished crossing the stream, would be less than half a day’s ride behind their Akkadian foes.
The Elamites had gradually closed the gap between the two forces, thanks to their fresher horses. Hathor’s mounts had been carrying the weight of their riders for more than a month. The Elamite cavalry leader, Simaski – reputed to be yet one more of King Shirudukh’s cousins – would be expecting to catch up with the Akkadians well before sundown tomorrow.
For this part of the plan, Hathor had taken charge, as Naxos agreed that the Akkadians had trained more often for this type of attack. The speed of the march, the direction they traveled, even the rest periods had to be calculated precisely. Hathor wanted to reach a certain campground just before dusk, and he wanted the Elamites, too, to make camp at another particular location.
By now the e
nemy had enough renegade guides in their service to provide all the information Simaski needed about the countryside between Sumer and Akkad. Hathor counted on those guides to suggest the best place for the Elamites to make their own camp tonight. The choice should be an easy one, with the presence of a small stream that promised plenty of water for the thirsty and tired enemy horsemen and their mounts.
The sun had already touched the horizon when Hathor’s force reached the camping place he had chosen nearly a year ago, along the banks of another, wider branch of the Tigris. The water presented a more difficult crossing, and one that the Akkadians would not want to risk in the growing darkness.
The weary men dismounted, then tended to their animals, making sure they drank plenty of water. The last of the grain was distributed, and the horses enjoyed the unusual bounty to go along with the thick grass that grew beside the riverbank. The men, too, ate well, finishing up the last of the supplies delivered only last night by Yavtar’s boatmen.
With the enemy so close behind, Hathor posted a strong guard around his camp, just in case the Elamite scouts, who were keeping the Akkadians in sight, were tempted to raid the Akkadian encampment. Tonight of all nights, that must not happen.
Spread out along the riverbank, Hathor’s men unrolled their blankets and dropped to the earth, to get as much sleep as possible.
For Hathor and Naxos, however, there would be little rest tonight. Just after dark, Hathor sent out a scouting party of his own, under the command of a veteran soldier named Asina, with special orders.
Twenty men had left the camp, pacing their horses in the dim light of the half moon. Asina and his men were to ride one mile back toward the Elamite scouts, dismount, leave their horses behind, and proceed on foot. If the enemy outriders remained true to their habit, they would have camped for the night about three miles away.
But before they bedded down, they would dispatch one or two riders to return to the main force and report on the Akkadian position. At least that was what the Elamites had done for the last three nights.
