Conflict of Empires

by Sam Barone

  “Attack!” he shouted. “Kill them all! Kill them all!”

  His horse killed beneath him, Fashod broke through his own ring of attackers, and saw Eskkar a dozen paces ahead, swinging his sword and surrounded by enemies. Fashod’s bow was gone, wrenched from his hands, and he’d seen Grond go down, crushed by a mass of surging Tanukhs. Fashod saw Chinua jump his horse over the mounting bodies of the dead, to move to Fashod’s side.

  “Eskkar!” Fashod used his sword to point at the Akkadian.

  Chinua still had his bow. Gripping his horse hard with his knees, he fit a shaft to the string and shot it, striking a Tanukh horseman trying to ride down the king. Three more shafts followed, launched faster than any Fashod had ever seen, and the rush that threatened to overwhelm Eskkar slowed. His quiver empty, Chinua dropped his bow and snatched out his sword.

  Behind them, the Ur Nammu war cry sounded, and a half dozen warriors broke through their enemies and swept past Fashod and Chinua. Kicking their horses to the gallop, they charged the Tanukhs, brushing past Eskkar as they hurled themselves into the mass of enemy horsemen. Behind them rode another shouting handful of Akkadians desperate to reach the king’s side. If Eskkar went down, the battle could still be lost.

  60

  Shulgi’s voice rasped with every order he shouted. The Akkadian bowmen had raked his men with their shafts, the puny boats on the river had taken their toll on his right flank, and now Eskkar’s horsemen had charged deep into the gap created by Razrek’s carelessness.

  “Hold them off!” Shulgi shouted, turning to the Tanukh beside him.

  Kapturu, the leader of the Tanukhs, heard the war cries of the approaching men and hesitated.

  “Order your men forward or I’ll kill you now!” Shulgi said, his sword suddenly in his hand. The king’s guards moved in closer, both to protect their leader and prevent Kapturu’s leaving.

  The Tanukh weighed his chances, then gave the order. Raising his arm, he pointed toward Eskkar’s charging horsemen. “Tanukhs! Forward! Attack! Attack!”

  The mass of Tanukh horsemen surged forward, whatever their misgivings. In a few strides, the Sumerian reserve moved toward the gap, gaining speed as they moved. Then the wave of Akkadians tore through the tiny opening and crashed into the Tanukhs. In moments the fighting had surged past his once orderly ranks and into his rear. The battle Shulgi had sought for two years now threatened to overwhelm him.

  Shulgi stared at the carnage surrounding him. His cavalry had vanished, and only the Tanukhs were keeping the Akkadians from breaking through the line. But his infantry’s flank was in ruins, and some of Eskkar’s cavalry had slipped past and smashed into the rear of the line. Still, if the Tanukhs could hold a little longer, until Razrek’s men counterattacked, the Akkadians would be caught between two forces and broken.

  The mass of Sumerian and Tanukh fighters to his left thinned out, and Shulgi saw Eskkar’s tall figure, now dismounted, but still leading the attack and trying to break through to the rear.

  “Bowmen!” Shulgi’s bellow turned every one of his men’s heads toward him. He pointed toward Eskkar. “Get bowmen on the king! Kill Eskkar!”

  Two archers ran up, pushing their way through Shulgi’s protective ring of horsemen, trying to scramble onto the tiny hillock and get high enough above the mass of men to take a shot at Akkad’s king. Shulgi reached down and grabbed the nearest by the shoulder and pointed towards Eskkar. “Hurry! Don’t let him get away!”

  The first archer drew back his shaft and let fly. A good shot, and Shulgi saw the arrow strike Eskkar in the chest, but the king was turning when the missile struck, and it merely glanced off the Akkadian’s breastplate. The other archer, still struggling to find his footing amidst Shulgi’s personal guards, drew back his shaft for a carefully aimed shot …

  On the river, Yavtar saw the Sumerians start their advance, and a quick glance showed the Akkadian spearmen also moving forward. They looked helpless against such a large force. Their flanks would be turned, or they’d be overrun and pinned against the river and slaughtered.

  “Boats!” Yavtar had to shout the word with all his lungs. Fortunately, the emptiness of the river carried his voice to the other two boats. “Move in closer to shore! We have to hold the spearmen’s flank!”

  He turned to his steersman, still crouched as low as he could and just as frightened as when the battle began. “Move us closer to the shore! Get us within fifty paces, and keep us there!”

  Daro dropped down beside him, an arrow still strung on the bow. “Good move. We’ll cut them apart at that distance.”

  Unless a few hundred suddenly jumped in the river and swam toward them, Yavtar thought. Then we’re all going to be dead.

  But the boat crept toward the riverbank, the men still straining at their oars. It took more effort to hold the boat in position as the land drew near, and these men had been pulling at the oars for some time. A look ahead and behind showed that the other two vessels had heard and understood the order. Either that, or they were just keeping their station on Yavtar’s boat, as they’d been ordered.

  “Daro! We need to lighten the boat. Throw the dead overboard.”

  At least five bowmen were dead, and two or three were cursing in pain from their wounds. Still, getting rid of the dead would help the oarsmen.

  Daro nodded, and soon bodies were shoved over the side, to splash loudly in the water before drifting away on the current.

  By the time his men dumped the dead overboard, Yavtar’s boat had pulled within twenty paces of the fighting. The three craft, which had drifted a few dozen paces apart since the start of the fighting, now drew closer together. Yavtar could have jumped from his boat into either of the other two. He could see the drawn faces of the Sumerians and hear the shouts and curses as they advanced.

  On shore, all the Sumerians were on the move forward, their attention for a moment fixed on the advancing Akkadian infantry as the two forces converged. The archers on board the riverboats noticed the slackening of arrows directed toward them. Emboldened, they aimed their shafts and launched at the Sumerian flank, now unprotected by either shield wall or the Sumerian archers.

  As the enemy advanced, the boats compensated to keep themselves level with the Sumerians. Yavtar’s boat, and the one following behind him, slowed their rowing to keep themselves in the same position. But a gap opened up between those two craft and the remaining boat, the one that had been farthest north. It was now well behind the advancing enemy lines, and drifted even nearer to the shore.

  For a moment, Yavtar thought the wayward craft might be sinking. Then he saw the arrows that flew from that craft were aimed not at the moving infantry, but deep toward the center of the Sumerian line. What targets drew their shafts Yavtar couldn’t see, but the boat captain knew his business, and the leader of his boat’s archers had been picked by Daro for that command. Still, their orders were to stay close to Yavtar’s boat, and to follow his lead.

  “Daro!” He pointed with his hand at the other boast, now a hundred paces ahead of the other two boats.

  After launching the shaft on his bowstring, Daro ducked back behind the shield. Yavtar again jabbed his hand toward the lead boat.

  Breathing hard, Daro had no time for more than a glance at the wayward craft.

  “Forget them, Yavtar. Keep us abreast of the enemy line.”

  On the first ship, a young archer named Viran commanded the force of bowmen. He saw Yavtar’s and the other boat slipping southward to maintain close contact with the Sumerian line. But as the enemy spearmen, infantry, and their supporting archers moved forward, Viran glimpsed a cluster of horsemen near the center of the Sumerian line. Three red banners floated in the air just around them. Viran couldn’t see much, but he knew what the banners floating softly in the morning breeze likely meant. Some Sumerian commanders had marked their position, and the banners dipped and rose to signal movements to their men.

  Alexar, Drakis, even Eskkar, had all ordered their bowmen, time after
time, to aim for the leaders of the enemy. Viran saw that the banners neither advanced nor retreated. That might not mean much. He took but a moment to decide.

  “Boatmaster! Forget Yavtar’s order. Keep us where we are!” Viran turned his attention to his own men. “Archers! See those three red banners? Let’s give them a few volleys!”

  By this stage of the battle, Viran only had nine archers still fit to draw a bow. But if even one or two arrows struck the enemy commanders, it would be worth the effort. The arrows’ flight would be a long one, and his bowmen would have to put plenty of arc on the shot, but they should be just within range.

  “Halt! At my command! Draw your bows! Shoot! Again! Hit those red banners, damn you! Draw! Shoot! Keep shooting!”

  Viran barked the same commands used on the training ground, but now his voice added urgency to his men, and they dug deep into their waning reserves of strength to obey. Fortunately, no enemy archers were targeting Viran’s boat, though out of the corner of his eye he saw plenty of shafts still striking Yavtar’s vessel.

  The first volley from Viran’s ship rose up into the air almost like a flight of birds, one shaft leading the others. At this distance, and without a high place to observe the targets, Viran knew he wouldn’t be able to see the effects of his men’s arrows. But like all of Akkad’s finer marksmen, he had faith in both his weapon and his men’s ability. He glanced at his bowmen on either side.

  “Pull those shafts, you lazy dogs! Make sure every arrow reaches those banners!”

  As he gave the command, Viran set the example. Aiming his arrow high toward the still climbing sun, he dragged the feathered end to his ear, fighting against the tension and the tiredness in his arms, and released. The thick bowstring twanged and slapped hard against his wrist guard as the shaft tore its way up into the air. A puff of air pushed it forward, before it began its descent.

  As he nocked another shaft, he wondered if he would ever know what effect his men’s arrows would have this day.

  The small flight of arrows rained down on Shulgi’s bodyguards. Only a half dozen reached the place where the Sumerian king stood. A bodyguard took a shaft in the thigh, but despite the knot of men surrounding the king, the rest failed to strike any other targets. Except one. One arrow dove deep into the rump of a horse, ridden by a bodyguard positioned just behind Shulgi. The wounded beast bolted forward, crashing into Shulgi’s mount, and driving the Sumerian king and his horse into the two archers. The arrow aimed at Eskkar’s head flew wide, and both archers were knocked to the ground. The terrified animal, wild with pain from the thick shaft and unable to move forward, then reared up and began striking out with its hooves.

  With a curse, Shulgi found himself fighting to keep his seat. His horse was struck in the neck by a flying hoof from the enraged animal beside him. Both horses reared up, biting and kicking at each other, but Shulgi’s mount lost its footing and crashed to the earth, taking the king with him.

  His shoulder took the brunt of the fall, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a moment he lay pinned beneath his kicking horse. Then the frantic animal found its footing, struggled to its feet, and bolted off to the rear, away from the noise and confusion. The other horse, maddened by the pain in its rump, continued bucking and rearing, until one of the guardsmen struck it across the head with his sword, sending the animal stumbling dead to the ground. Two of Shulgi’s red banners went down with it, entangled with the beast.

  Another half dozen or so arrows rained down on the Sumerian king’s position. One man took a shaft in the side, but no other missiles found a target. Shaking his head, Shulgi climbed to his feet. The first thing he saw was Kapturu, the leader of the Tanukhs, wheeling his horse around and kicking it hard, away from the edge of the battle front that had come too near for Kapturu’s liking. Other Tanukhs followed their clan leader’s example.

  “King Shulgi is dead! The king is dead!”

  Some fool had seen Shulgi fall, and given voice to the lie. Others took up the cry at the sight of the king’s riderless horse. He knew he had to stop the panic from spreading.

  “Sumerians! To me! To me!”

  Except for those surrounding him, Shulgi’s shout went unheard, almost lost in the clamor of the conflict. Men shouted at each other, horses neighed and screamed, and the clash of bronze sword rang on both wooden shields and naked blades.

  He tried to drag his sword from its scabbard, but the blade resisted, the scabbard bent by the fall. Shulgi finally ripped it free and raised it up over his head. “To me! Rally to your king!” He trod over two bodies to reach the lone red standard and stood beside it. “Rally to your king!”

  A few heads turned his way. Others picked up his words, and passed them on. Shulgi knew he needed to hold his position long enough to give his spearmen time to break the Akkadian ranks. Victory remained within his grasp.

  His shield held close to his eyes, Gatus stood behind his ranks of spearmen, watching the battle line ripple and waver as the bloody fighting continued. His left flank, anchored against the river, was holding fast, no doubt helped by the two of Yavtar’s fighting boats that Gatus could see. What should have been the weakest part of the line, the right flank, also stood firm, no doubt helped by the confusion that Hathor and Klexor’s men had brought to bear. Only at the center, facing the greatest concentration of Sumerian might, had the advance ground to a halt, and even as he stared, it started giving way.

  Gatus turned his head. By now he’d expected the Sumerian cavalry to be on his back, but the grassy field, trampled down by his men, remained empty as far as he could see. The slingers must still be engaging the enemy horsemen.

  Shouts from his infantry snapped his head around. His precious spearmen were being driven back, killed as they tried to hold the line. They had started out in ranks three or even four deep, but now he saw many gaps where only one or two ranks remained, struggling to resist the enormous mass of Sumerian infantry, many shouting the war cries of Larsa, only a dozen paces away. Gatus knew they couldn’t withstand so many for much longer.

  “Mitrac! Alexar! Help hold the line!”

  Without waiting for a reply, Gatus charged ahead, his two cursing bodyguards caught by surprise at the old man’s sudden burst of speed. Drawing his sword, Gatus ran straight toward the largest bulge in the line. He arrived just as three men went down, losing their footing against the pressure of the Sumerians. Sumerian shouts rose, as the enemy saw only a handful of archers before them.

  With an oath, Gatus thrust himself into the breech. Despite his age, his muscles were fresh, unlike those of all the men fighting. “Akkad! Spearmen, hold! Hold the line!”

  His shield knocked one man back, and he thrust his sword into the face of another. The ground had good footing here, and his guards crashed against the line on either side of their leader, all three using their swords and shouting their war cries.

  Hacking and stabbing, the three men halted the advance, and Gatus managed to take a step forward before the Sumerians regained their footing.

  The Sumerians, nipped and harried by the Akkadians all morning, with many of their own men killed in the initial charge, now saw empty space only a few paces ahead. The sight rallied their strength and they pushed forward. One of Gatus’s guards went down, struck in the head with a sword. Gatus redoubled his efforts, thrusting and hacking with his sword, and keeping his shoulder pressed against his shield.

  Something burned his side, and he staggered back, shoved by the force of the spear that entered his body. His surviving bodyguard struck at the enemy spearman’s face, knocking the man down and ripping the spear’s point from Gatus’s side. Ignoring the pain, Gatus moved forward again, swinging his sword down on another enemy head. Then a crazed Sumerian shoved a shield against Gatus’s, and once again drove the Akkadian back. He slipped and fell, as the way opened up for the Sumerian spearmen to burst through the Akkadian line.

  Mitrac had arrived with one hundred archers. The enemy horsemen hadn’t appeared on the infantr
y’s flank yet, and he’d seen Gatus’s line bend and begin to break. Mitrac’s men gathered into two ranks, a dozen paces behind the center of the line. “First rank aim high, second rank low. Shoot!”

  Without seeming to aim, he put a shaft right through the eye of the first battle-crazed Sumerian to step over Gatus’s still struggling body. Shaft after shaft, propelled from the powerful bow, tore into the enemy, many of them too weary to lift their shields high enough to protect their faces.

  The second rank of archers targeted the enemy’s legs, shooting downward into the mass of churning limbs that were packed so close together that almost every shaft had to strike something before it buried itself in the earth. Mitrac realized those facing him were not spearmen. Most of those had fallen victim to the Akkadian spears. These men lacked the large shields that the Sumerian infantry carried. Most were armed only with swords and small shields.

  The deadly flight of arrows halted the surging Sumerians. Even those with shields found their protection of little use. At such close range, many bronze-tipped shafts bored through the hide-covered wood with enough strength to kill or wound the flesh pressed against it. Mitrac’s bowmen had plenty of arrows, and in moments they’d launched a thousand arrows at the concentrated enemy line.

  The Sumerians halted, unable to advance in the face of the withering arrow volleys. A few glanced up, to see even more archers racing toward them. Cries went up from behind them, as Klexor’s horsemen continued to pound their rear, the sound of Akkadian war cries at their back adding to their confusion. In a few heartbeats, panic raced through the Sumerians.

  Mitrac saw the effect of his arrow storm. “Advance! Keep shooting!” Even as he bellowed the words, he stepped forward, still loosing shafts as fast as he could. “Kill the Sumerians! Death to Sumeria!”