Eskkar Saga 02 - Empire Rising

by Sam Barone

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Empire Rising

  Eskkar Saga Book Two

  Sam Barone

  © 2006

  Prologue

  3157 B.C.E., at the eastern edge of the great southern desert in Mesopotamia

  Head sagging, his face inches above the heated rubble of rock-hard dirt, Korthac struggled against the escarpment. The long ascent had scraped the skin from his hands and knees, and now every contact with the sun-seared stones burned his flesh, as he struggled another step up the slope. Close your eyes, just for a moment. The inner voices grew more insistent, seductive, as another wave of dizziness swept over him. Rest! Let another lead the way.

  Clenching his teeth, he crawled on, fighting against the voices as much as the steep hillside and the pitiless sun. Korthac could not show weakness in front of his men. The desert might kill him, but it would not defeat him.

  He’d find water at the top, and live. Clinging to the thought, he dragged himself upward.

  Water. Most of all he fought against the need for water, forced himself to ignore his swollen tongue and parched throat. Water. Korthac pictured streams of clear, bubbling water nestled under shady sycamore and willow trees. He forced the image from his thoughts and concentrated on wrenching himself up another arm’s length. The vision and the voices kept returning. He must find water, or the desert would prevail over him, claim him and all his followers. That could not be.

  The top of the ridge beckoned, just a few paces above. He moved with caution, making sure his trembling legs did not betray him. Twice in the last hour Korthac heard the death screams of men who had fallen back to the desert floor. If he lost his grip, started to slide back down, he didn’t know if he had the strength to stop his fall.

  His thirst drove him on. Fortune had saved him and his minions time and again in the last two months, but even the gods couldn’t keep a man alive in the desert with no water. He refused to believe his destiny meant for him to die like this, hunted and herded into this barren wasteland like some wretched slave, driven mad by thirst before the death gods claimed his body.

  Last night, a few hours past sunset, Korthac and his men reached the base of the plateau they’d first glimpsed three days ago. The remnants of his once-mighty army fell on their faces and slept until dawn. When they awoke this morning, two men could not get to their feet.

  Korthac ignored their pleading. “Kill them.” He’d given the same order almost every morning for the last two weeks. Those closest drew their knives and thrust them deep into the chests of the helpless men. The rest needed no further urging. They crowded around the two dying men and cut their victims to pieces, every man shoving and pushing his way to seize a piece of moist flesh, valued as much for its thirst-quenching blood as for its nourishment. When the gory ritual ended, only the splintered bones, their marrow sucked dry, remained on the red-soaked sand. Even the skulls were cracked and the brains scooped out. Afterward, fewer than eighty men started the climb up the sheer and treacherous slope.

  Korthac ate with the rest, on his knees and pushing the bloody flesh into his mouth as fast as he could. The act no longer shocked him or any of his men. The strong fed upon the weak to gain sustenance for another day.

  But even a fresh-killed body didn’t hold enough water to keep so many men going through the desert. They’d had no water for three days, not since a brief rainstorm sprinkled the sands and filled a few hollows in the rocks with its precious liquid. If they didn’t find water atop this plateau, they’d all be dead by sunset.

  His outstretched hand grabbed on to nothing, and Korthac realized he’d reached the end of his climb. Pulling himself over the crest, he rolled onto his back, breathing hard, oblivious of the blinding sun. When he heard the scraping of those following, he forced himself first to his knees, then to his feet. His men would not see him crawling about on the dirt.

  Shading his eyes, he looked around. The landscape had changed. For the first time in weeks, he saw the endless sands replaced by a stony mixture of earth and clay, with scattered shrubs and bushes dotting the terrain. To the east his eyes picked out what he’d hoped to find, a line of green about two miles away that could only be trees. Where trees grew, water flowed. The gods had favored him once again. He would survive to find his destiny.

  Korthac turned back to the cliff ’s edge and in a hoarse voice called out the news to his men. As he did so, he looked down at the desert floor, surprised at how distant it seemed. They’d climbed more than two thousand feet to reach the top of this elevation.

  Hand on his knife, he made sure the first four men to reach the crest still carried their burdens, small sacks tied to their backs. Only then did he relax, counting and appraising each of his fighters, to see if any looked too weak to carry on. But the sight of the distant tree line gave every man renewed vigor. Dirty, crusted with blood and sand, their skin burned nearly black from weeks under the unrelenting sun, they looked more like demons than men.

  When the last one reached the top, Korthac finished his count. Seventy-four men had survived the desert passage, less than half the number who survived the battle and fled with their leader into the wasteland. Nothing could stop them now. He led the way, his men stumbling along behind him.

  They headed east, the same direction they’d run, walked, and crawled for the last two months.

  Halfway to the trees, Korthac caught sight of a village and changed his course. As they reached the outskirts of the small cluster of mud huts, the ground gave way to a barley field that offered its heady scent to the wind. Forcing a path through the waist-high crops, his eyes picked out the mud-ridged channel carrying water to the growing plants.

  Korthac lurched into a run, his men staggering behind as best they could. He reached the edge of the irrigation ditch and flung himself down, to gulp mouthfuls of the muddy stream. His men splashed about on either side, crawling and pushing until they, too, shoved their faces into the water.

  Korthac drank until he needed to draw a breath, then let his face fall again into the muddy water. Only when his stomach protested did he stop.

  Disgusted at showing such weakness, Korthac pushed himself to his feet, noted the flow of the water, and moved away from his men until he reached a part of the ditch still unsoiled by his followers. He knelt and drank again, but only a few mouthfuls, able to restrain himself once more.

  Then he washed his face and hands, and scooped the cool water over his body, rinsing away most of the dirt and blood that had crusted over him for days.

  When Korthac stood up, he felt refreshed, even his hunger driven away by the fullness in his belly. He and his men would take what they needed from the village and rest there until they regained their strength.

  He walked down the line of the canal, giving orders to his subcommanders, getting everyone out of the water before s
ome fool drank himself to death. Splashing through the ditch, Korthac walked toward the huts.

  It seemed strange that no one had noticed their approach, that no farmers worked the field. Just before he reached the first of the mud structures, he heard a scream, a piercing cry of agony that rose above a background of laughter, the mixture of sounds close ahead. Passing into the village, he counted the dozen or so scattered huts and tents. Likely less than fifty people, all struggling to stay alive in this rocky place at the edge of the great desert.

  The screams increased in intensity as they guided his steps. In the center of the huts he found a crowd gathered, their attention focused on something he could not see. A young boy dancing with excitement noticed Korthac’s approach and gave a shout, pointing with his arm. Everyone turned, and Korthac saw fear and surprise on their faces as they saw his grim followers walking into their midst, hands on their weapons. A babble of sound arose at the sight of the ragged band, and the crowd parted.

  Korthac strode through, until he reached the center and halted, his men bunching up behind him.

  Five men lay on the ground, staked out naked in the dirt. Two had died, blood pooled around their necks, their agony ended with slit throats. Half a dozen men and women knelt around the three who lived, sticks, rocks, or knives in their hands. Korthac noticed that one captive, a big man with dark hair and a gray-flecked beard, had only scrapes and bruises on his face and chest. He would be the leader, Korthac decided, saved for last so that he could watch his followers die and better appreciate his coming torment.

  “What is this place?” Korthac’s hoarse words silenced the crowd. He’d scarcely raised his voice, but everyone recognized the authority in his tone. “What is this place?”

  One of the kneeling men stood and replied, but Korthac could make no sense of his gibberish. Korthac tried again, using all the tongues he knew, but with the same effect.

  “It’s called Magabad.”

  Korthac could barely comprehend the words, and he glanced around to find the speaker. To his surprise, the words came from the bearded man spread-eagled on the ground, the captives’ leader. Lifting his bloody, sweat-soaked head from the ground, the man struggled to meet Korthac’s eyes.

  “You understand the language of Egypt?”

  “A few words, lord . . . learned from men I commanded.”

  “And you are . . . ?” Korthac strained to discern the man’s words.

  “My name is Ariamus. I was . . .” The man’s voice broke, and he couldn’t get the words out.

  Korthac turned to his subcommanders. “Cut that one loose.”

  With none of them understanding the foreign tongue, the villagers stood speechless during this exchange. But when Korthac’s men pushed forward and started to free Ariamus, the crowd protested with a jabber of incomprehensible sounds that meant nothing to Korthac. One of the farmers stepped in front of Korthac, raising his voice and gesturing. Anger showed on the villager’s face as he waved his hands in excitement, and the rest joined in to support their leader, everyone shouting at the same time.

  The knife flashed from Korthac’s belt and buried itself in the villager’s stomach. Almost as quickly, Korthac withdrew it, then pushed the man to the ground with his other hand. The dying man clutched his belly and bled into the dirt, his face showing as much surprise as pain.

  Korthac’s fighters moved among the now-silent crowd, shoving them back with their hands. The dozen or so adult men, surrounded by their women and children, had no chance against Korthac’s seventy, even weakened by their ordeal in the arid wasteland. The few knives his followers still possessed made the crowd step back. None of Korthac’s men possessed a sword. Even he had discarded his fine blade weeks ago, its weight magnified by the desert heat.

  A handful of villagers turned and fled. Korthac frowned at the sight.

  If they kept running, they would get away. His men had no stamina to pursue.

  The subcommander finished cutting Ariamus free, then pushed him to his knees at Korthac’s feet.

  “Water, lord,” Ariamus gasped, lowering his forehead to the ground.

  “Why should I give you water? Are you the leader of these captives?”

  “Yes, lord. Please, lord, we’ve had no food or water since yesterday.”

  Korthac thought of his own hunger and the harsh passage just completed. “You will serve me . . . Ariamus? If I give you your life, you and your men will swear to obey my commands?” His voice rang out over the village, and Korthac felt his power and purpose returning. “Serve me faithfully, or you die.”

  “Whatever you say . . . lord. Just give me water.”

  Korthac gazed at those surrounding him. Only fear or obedience showed on their faces, the first of those in this new land to submit to his rule. He turned to his subcommanders. “Round up the villagers. Have them bring food and water.” He walked toward the largest of the nearby huts, unable to resist the shady interior any longer. “And bring that one to me.” He pointed to Ariamus, still crouching in the dirt. “We have much to discuss.”

  Fifteen days later, the horror of the desert trek had almost faded from memory. Korthac had gained back much of the weight he’d lost and almost all of his strength. The bloody scabs on his hands and knees had closed, then healed. Belted around his waist hung a well-made bronze sword, taken from one of the villagers who had in turn captured it from Ariamus. Korthac’s dark hair hung neatly around his shoulders, trimmed and combed by one of the village women.

  A slight man with the wiry muscles and the endurance of a runner, Korthac knew he had to stay fit, had to be stronger and more skillful with every weapon than the men he commanded. They must fear his anger as much as they respected his cunning. It must always be so.

  The day after they reached the village, Korthac set up a regimen for himself. Each morning he trained with the wooden swords the sullen villagers carved for him and his men. Then he spent three hours with Ariamus, learning the main dialects of the Land Between the Rivers, as the inhabitants called the farmlands they occupied.

  Afterward, Korthac rode for two hours, hardening his thighs and back as he forced the village’s only horse up and down the steep and rocky hills until his mastery of the animal had returned. While he rode, his subcommanders kept Ariamus busy; they took charge of their newest recruit, forcing him to learn the dialect of northern Egypt. Their wooden swords served another function: to make sure their pupil applied himself diligently.

  When darkness approached, Korthac returned to his language lessons with Ariamus. They talked long into the night. Korthac learned not only the language and its nuances, but also the customs and beliefs of the people in this new land. This night, an hour before sunset, Korthac relaxed on a small mat under a poplar tree, his back leaning against the slim trunk.

  Six feet away, Ariamus sat cross-legged in the dirt. Two of Korthac’s men squatted a few paces behind Ariamus.

  Korthac had learned much from Ariamus, far more than the man intended to reveal. It hadn’t taken long to discover his weaknesses—his lust for gold, women, and power. But Korthac trusted no one, and so his men remained nearby. He didn’t want Ariamus to have any sudden change of heart, at least not until the man had given up every bit of useful information he possessed.

  “So, Ariamus, tell me again about this great village of Orak.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know, lord. My head aches trying to remember more to tell you.” He looked up at Korthac, noted the frown that had suddenly formed, and quickly went on. “Lord, Orak is about two hundred miles from this place, across both the Euphrates and the Tigris rivers. A few weeks ago they drove off a mighty barbarian horde. Now Orak is the most powerful village in the land. They say that soon all villages in the countryside will defer to Orak.”

  “And their leader, this . . . Eskkar?”

  “An ignorant barbarian, lord. A stupid lout driven out by his own kind, no doubt for good reason. He could barely speak our language when he came to Orak, and
he drank his pay as soon as he earned it. He was my least subcommander when I led Orak’s guard. If it wasn’t for his skill with a horse, he’d have been nothing more than a common soldier.”

  “Yet now you say he commands three thousand people in Orak while you nearly died here in the dirt. Doesn’t that seem . . . strange to you?”

  Ariamus squirmed and clenched his fist, uncomfortable at being reminded how far he’d fallen. “Eskkar took a witch for a wife. Some slave girl from the south who belonged to one of Orak’s ruling families. She bewitched him. They say she rules Orak through him.”

  Korthac didn’t believe in enchantments, but most of his men did, so he let the comment pass. The superstitions of Egypt had helped him there, and whatever foolish beliefs held sway in this land would do the same.

  “Did she also put a spell on the men of Orak, to turn them into warriors? Or perhaps these barbarians you feared so much were such puny fighters they let a village of farmers and shopkeepers defeat them?”

  “The barbarians are ferocious fighters, lord, and none can stand against them. But the villagers built a mud wall around Orak, and the barbarians could not overwhelm it. The wall saved them, not Eskkar.”

  Korthac noted the flush that came over Ariamus’s face at the mention of barbarians, apparently wild tribes of nomadic horsemen from the distant steppes. Though Korthac had coaxed the whole story out of him more than a week ago, he kept probing Ariamus’s memory, searching for more details or any hint of deception. Each retelling yielded some new fact for Korthac to ponder.

  Once again, Ariamus related how a small raiding party of these wandering horsemen had ambushed him and his band of rogues, killing most of them and seizing all their accumulated loot and horses. Ariamus and a handful of men managed to escape on foot, driven to the west. They’d run and walked for over a week until they reached this miserable collection of huts called Magabad. Ariamus had taken over the village, but he didn’t have enough men, and after two days of indignities, the villagers rose up in the night. They killed two of their oppressors as they slept and captured the rest, to put them to the torture. If Korthac had arrived an hour later, Ariamus would have died under the knife, along with all his men.