Clash Of Empires (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  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 pas
sed 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.”

  Chapter 39

  General Martiya took his position alongside the Immortals, on their flank, about ten men behind their front line. He had taken command of Modran’s best troops, to make sure they punched through the Akkadians no matter what. Drawn up in a tightly-packed, solid column one hundred men wide and fifteen men deep, they would provide the hammer stroke against Eskkar’s right flank.

  Each Immortal wore a leather helmet wrapped in a bright red cloth, and each fighter carried a sturdy shield that would stop most shafts from penetrating. The front three rows carried spears in addition to the sword each man wore at his waist. Today the spears served another function – to make sure the soldiers in front kept moving forward.

  Positioned just ahead of the Immortals, another three thousand troops had massed. Their sloppy formations and nervous glances were all that could be expected from troops who knew they were being sent to the slaughter. Their purpose was to absorb the Akkadian arrows, shielding the Immortals until they’d drawn close enough to launch their charge. The Elamite front ranks knew the Immortals had orders to impale any man that faltered or tried to retreat.

  Behind the Immortal column, Martiya saw almost thirty-six hundred cavalry poised to attack. Many of his horse fighters had fought dismounted and died in the second battle. With so many horses stolen or killed, less than half of the once vaunted Elamite cavalry remained.

  Lord Modran had taken direct command of that force, and he would ensure that they were hurled into the battle at the right moment. The rest of the Elamite cavalry would fight on foot today, attacking the Akkadian center.

  That would hold Eskkar’s troops in place, and prevent reinforcements being shifted to Eskkar’s right flank. Once Martiya and the Immortals had opened the tiniest gap in the Akkadian flank, Modran would drive his cavalry through the opening and into Eskkar’s rear. Then the slaying would begin.

  Martiya knew Modran burned to take his revenge for the humiliation of the last five days. Both men dreaded what punishments King Shirudukh would inflict upon them after yet one more defeat. The sneers and contempt from General Jedidia and Grand Commander Chaiyanar would be almost as bad. The upcoming fight would be brutal, but if Martiya could lead even a handful of soldiers up to Akkad’s gates, Modran and he could claim a victory.

  Eskkar, too, watched as the darkness gave way to gray, and soon the first rays of the sun sent gold and pink light into the sky, outlining the high peaks of the Dellen Pass. In moments, Eskkar saw the enemy positions, as dawn rose over the mountains.

  Today he sat astride A-tuku, a sign to all his men that nothing would be held back. He’d chosen A-tuku to carry him into the battle, despite the risk to the animal. If Eskkar were killed during the fighting, he didn’t want A-tuku to fall into enemy hands, a humiliating trophy that the Elamites would flaunt throughout the land. Better that they should both die in combat.

  Mounted, Eskkar could see all the way down the slope. For once, the Elamites stood in formation, ready to advance. By the time the attack began in earnest, the Akkadians would have the sun in their eyes.

  As he stared at his enemies, a drum sounded from somewhere within their ranks, and Modran’s soldiers took that first step forward. Eskkar knew the Elamites were battle-weary and that they suffered from shortages of food and water. Would they fight harder because of that lack, or would they give way when the brutal fighting began?

  In the Alur Meriki Clan, Eskkar knew older warriors sometimes led the way into battle, risking their lives in the front ranks to preserve the lives of the younger, more vigorous fighters. In such situations, the older men often fought harder, before their strength or resolve gave way to fatigue or doubt. In that way, the old gave their utmost to help the Clan, and if the gods decreed, died with honor.

  Eskkar recognized that Modran had positioned a large force of men in front of the Immortals, to shield them as much as possible. That force, its lack of enthusiasm recogni
zable even from a distance, would be sacrificed to protect the precious Immortals.

  Eskkar had managed to snatch a few moments of sleep during the night, not enough to refresh him, and he felt the tiredness in his bones. Approaching his fiftieth season, he’d grown far too old for a tough campaign such as this, let alone fighting in the front lines. Battle should be left to the young, those quick with a sword, insensible to fatigue, and strong enough to ride and fight all day.

  But today, Eskkar felt the urge to strike his enemies with his own hands, the same eagerness that his men had displayed when they learned how this last battle would be fought.

  His guards approached, and handed Eskkar his helmet and shield. Brown stain, applied last night, covered the bronze helmet and breastplate. The dark coloring would help him blend in with the leather armor of his men. His commanders had not wanted Eskkar to be the target of every Elamite bowman. Leather gauntlets protected both forearms. Despite his annoyance, he wore a stiff collar around his neck, to protect his throat from arrows.

  Eskkar fastened the helmet on his head and accepted his bronze shield. He carried the long sword over his shoulder, but also wore his shorter blade belted to his left hip. Last, his bodyguards handed him a slim lance, its tip sharpened to an extra keen point.

  Raising his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, Eskkar stared down the slope at the advancing Elamites. Today they had no boastful shouts, no loud war cries designed to frighten his men. They knew such efforts would be wasted, and it would be better to save their breath for the final run and savage fight.

  It would indeed be a hard fight. No matter what happened today, whether Eskkar lived or died, whether the Akkadians won or lost this battle, he intended to deal such a deadly blow to the Elamites that any siege of Akkad would be severely blunted, if not turned back.

  Eskkar shook the gloomy thoughts away. The strength of his arm, honed by months and years of training, still served him well enough. He might be weary, but he doubted Lord Modran, even though nearly twenty years younger, had gotten any more sleep. Both leaders would contend today less rested than any of their followers. All the same, Eskkar knew he only needed to keep up his strength for a little longer. The enemy would be tired enough, too.