6

“What happened?” A stupid question, Razrek knew, as soon as the words left his lips, but his head felt as if a horse had stepped on it. For all he remembered, maybe one had. He found himself sitting on the ground, his back resting against a large rock. A rough edge pressed against his spine, and Razrek shifted to remove the source of the pain. The movement sent a throbbing through his head. He had trouble speaking, and knew his thoughts were sluggish.

“What happened! I’ll tell you what happened.” Mattaki mouthed an oath and spat on the ground. “They littered the ground with our dead and wounded. Your horse took a shaft and went wild. You lost control and he threw you. If we hadn’t stopped to pick you up, you’d probably be dead by now.”

Razrek digested his subcommander’s harsh words. He remembered riding toward the hill, as arrows struck all about him. After that, everything was hazy. He must have fallen hard. His shoulder hurt, too, he realized.

“Well, then, I suppose I owe you my life,” Razrek said. He looked around. “Where are the rest of the men?”

“On the other side of the valley, damn you!” Mattaki shouted, his face a hand’s length from that of his commander. “By the time we stopped to pick you up, the men had ridden past. We had to turn around and come back. There was no chance of getting through. I lost my horse trying to save your neck.”

For a moment Razrek stared at him, his face empty of emotion. Then he realized what his subcommander’s words meant. “We’re not with our men?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . yes,” Mattaki answered, “with at least a dozen archers between us and them. We’ll have to ride around now, which is what we should have done in the first place.”

Razrek sagged back, his head spinning again. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched the side of his head. A massive bruise met his fingers, but he didn’t feel any blood. No doubt he was lucky to be alive.

Without him leading them, his men would find some excuse not to attack Eskkar’s force. They’d lost men and horses. Some would be wounded. They wanted to hear his orders. Those reasons would be enough to stop them from moving farther south. Even worse, Razrek, Mattaki, and the two men with them would have to swing round the valley, a time-wasting trip, and then have to hope they could catch up with their men.

“Is it finally sinking in?” Mattaki said with a sneer. “Or is your head still addled?”

“Damn you to the pits, watch your mouth!” Razrek held out his arm and Mattaki pulled him to his feet. For a moment, he thought he would fall down, but then the dizziness passed, and he felt the strength returning to his limbs. A sharp pain accompanied every movement of his head. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we catch up with our men the better.”

“If they haven’t scattered to the four winds,” Mattaki said.

His subcommander, too, knew what kind of men they commanded. They fought for gold and loot, and a chance to pillage. For weeks they enjoyed nothing but easy raids on helpless farmers. Now they felt the reach of Akkad’s arrows. They’d look for any excuse to avoid a dangerous and unprofitable fight.

Razrek managed to pull himself onto the spare horse. Whatever happened to the south, he wouldn’t be a part of it. Eridu would have to hold off Eskkar’s forces on his own. Razrek just hoped the Sumerian was up to the task.

“Lead the way, Mattaki,” was all he said. There wasn’t really anything else to say, not until they linked up with what was left of their men, and found out what had befallen Eridu and his foot soldiers.

As soon as he left Mitrac’s archers behind, Hathor drove his men hard. Fortunately, a day of rest and yesterday’s easy march had refreshed the mounts, at least enough to get one more day’s push out of them. He alternated the pace between a canter and a fast walk, the ground moving steadily beneath their hooves. Mile after mile passed as they followed the faint tracks of Eskkar’s bowmen. Whenever he turned his head to the rear, Hathor saw no sign of Razrek’s horsemen in pursuit.

Yesterday, when the commanders worked out the details of the plan, Hathor had argued strenuously over the role his horsemen were to play. Eskkar wanted to gamble everything on his archers reaching the enemy camp before dawn. He wanted Hathor’s cavalry to swing wide of Eridu’s campsite, slip behind the enemy, and approach them from the south. It would be a cunning move if everything went well, but Hathor convinced first the other commanders then Eskkar that it was better to just follow Eskkar’s men.

If the dawn raid worked as planned, Hathor’s cavalry should be able to quickly pick up the enemy’s trail, and would save the extra miles of riding needed to get behind the Sumerians. The Akkadian horses should still be able to ride down most of the fleeing soldiers, but more important, in the event that Eskkar’s plan went awry, Hathor’s cavalry would be able to provide support.

Most of all, as Hathor explained with all the energy he could muster, he and Eskkar would have a chance to communicate with each other. The longer two separate forces stayed out of contact, the greater the danger to both. That thought finally swayed Eskkar, and he had grudgingly given in.

He had never fought a large-scale battle with Eskkar before, but Hathor felt reassured that his commander listened to his subordinates, and didn’t recklessly decide every issue himself. Satisfied with the new orders, the Egyptian looked forward to proving his worth and the worth of his horsemen. Then Hathor remembered that he had fought with Eskkar once before, but not on the same side. After Eskkar spared Hathor’s life, it had taken a year before most of the Akkadians accepted his presence, and most of another year before they accepted his command. Now he had, for the first time, a chance to show what he could accomplish for King Eskkar, and Hathor did not intend to fail.

The sun had climbed halfway to its zenith before his horsemen rounded another of the endless low hills and saw a lone sentry ahead. The man took one look at the horsemen and disappeared, no doubt running as fast as he could to spread the word.

Hathor recognized the ground. “The stream is just up ahead!”

Down one hill and up another, they saw the Sumerian camp a quarter mile ahead of them. A line of bowmen had formed up facing them, but even at a distance Hathor recognized the longer bows that only the Akkadians could use so efficiently. He slowed his men to a trot until he recognized Eskkar’s looming figure standing at the center of the line.

“It’s Eskkar. He’s taken the camp!”

A cheer went up from his men, answered by one from the men in camp.

In a few moments, Eskkar was slapping Hathor on the back, practically pulling him down from the horse.

“You did it, I see, Captain.” Hathor glanced around at the ruined campsite, debris still scattered everywhere. The bodies had been dragged away from the stream, and the archers had pillaged every item the Sumerians left behind, searching for anything of value and adding to the litter that now covered the ground.

“Yes, we arrived just in time. Another mile and we’d have been too late. As it was, we hit them at sunrise.” He looked at Hathor’s weary riders. “There’s food for your men, and a stream to water your horses. And a dozen water sacks to carry with you, if you want to carry them.”

“Yes, we’ll take them. They won’t slow us down much before they’re gone.”

Eskkar nodded. “The Sumerians have been running since dawn, with no food or water. Most abandoned their weapons. They can’t have covered much ground on foot.”

Hathor understood. Eskkar always did everything as fast as he could drive his men.

“And, Hathor, we were right. It is King Eridu of Sumer that we’re fighting. Apparently, he raised up this army to capture the border. He got away before we could stop him . . . probably halfway to Sumer by now.”

Hathor nodded. That was Eskkar’s way of telling him to be careful. If the Sumerians linked up with their horsemen, they would still be a formidable force.

The riders stuffed stale Sumerian bread into their mouths as fast as they could swallow, while they watered their horses. As Hathor regrouped his troop, Alexar and two of his men came over. They carried ten of the short bows that could be used from horseback, and as many quivers.

“In case you need them, Hathor,” he said. “The Sumerians left them behind.”

The brief rest, coupled with food and water, helped the men more than the horses, but Hathor didn’t worry about that. The fleeing enemy couldn’t be far ahead, and the weary horses still had at least that much distance in them.

They rode out at a canter, following the broad track made by the fleeing Sumerian soldiers, the ground littered here and there with discarded weapons, water skins, food, sandals, and even clothing. The horsemen had gone less than a mile when they came upon three wounded men, too injured or exhausted to run any further. Hathor’s new bowmen finished them off, scarcely slowing down in the process.

That happened again and again. Some of the wounded pretended to be dead, but every Sumerian received an arrow or two, just to make sure. The Akkadians would collect the shafts on the way back.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the temperature grew hotter as well. The numbers of wounded Sumerians grew fewer. Those strong enough to get this far would not have been injured. But the lack of water would be taking its toll, slowing them down and weakening their limbs. A glance up at the sun showed midday would soon be upon them.

Hathor crested a hill and saw a large group of Sumerians ahead. Hathor’s men started to cheer.

“Silence! Halt! Not the slightest noise.” Hathor scanned the low hills ahead of him. About eighty or ninety men were grouped together. Some were already running, but most stood their ground. Then he understood.

“Give me your bow,” he ordered the nearest horsemen carrying one of the captured weapons. Snatching the short weapon from the man’s hands, Hathor raised it up over his head and waved it back and forth. “The rest of you with bows, do the same.”

After a few moments, one of the Sumerians returned the gesture. Hathor lowered the bow. “We’ll walk the horses toward them. With luck, they’ll think we’re their own cavalry. Try to look as tired as they are, and keep your eyes on the ground. And bunch up. We don’t want to look like an attack line.”

They started down the hill, plodding along. It wasn’t as foolish a trick as it appeared. His men dressed the same and rode the same kinds of horses as the Sumerian cavalry. Those who had attacked their camp had no mounts. More important, the Sumerians would be expecting their horsemen to rejoin them, and might assume that this was part of their own force. When the Sumerians realized their mistake, it wouldn’t matter. Hathor would give the order to charge. He had no doubt that his thirty horsemen, fresh and well armed, could scatter these poorly armed, exhausted, and thirsty opponents.

Their slow approach lulled the Sumerians. Men sank back to the ground, apparently relieved that they would not have to fight or run again. Hathor’s eye caught sight of four horses. If these men still had mounts, they must belong to the Sumerian commanders, else they would have vanished long ago.

“Bowmen,” Hathor said, “I don’t want those horses or their riders to get away. Make sure they don’t.”

Two men moved out in front of the Sumerians. One was tall and lean, and dressed in a blue tunic that even at a distance stood out from the rest. He stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword, while the other waved Hathor forward, impatience showing in his every movement.

Hathor and his men drew within a hundred and fifty paces before the man’s eyes widened in surprise. Close enough, Hathor decided. He needed some space to get the horses up to speed.

“Attack!” Hathor kicked his horse into a run and tightened his legs around the animal’s body. In moments, the powerful animal raced over the ground, hooves pounding, ears flat, as excited as its rider. Hathor’s sword flashed from its sheath, and he raised it up over his head and swung it around. “Attack! Akkad! Attack!”

As they’d been trained, the Akkadians shouted their war cries at the top of their lungs as they urged their horses forward.

“Akkad! Eskkar!”

The words struck fear into the Sumerians. Those standing turned and ran, already two steps ahead of those who had to first scramble to their feet. Hathor directed his horse straight at the man in the blue tunic, who turned and fled toward the horses waiting nearby. In a few long strides, the shoulder of Hathor’s horse crashed into the man’s back, knocking him to the ground. Then the Akkadians, still screaming their war cries, charged into the fleeing men.

Swords rose and fell, blood spurted into the air. Men screamed in agony, struck by sharp blades, knocked aside by the horses, or just trampled underfoot. Again and again swords descended, each strike eliciting a cry of pain. A few Sumerians tried to fight, but a tired and thirsty man on foot had little chance against a sword swung down from a horse. Even those Sumerians untouched by any weapon were affected, the age-old fear of men on foot caught from behind by mounted warriors.

In moments the Akkadians had swept through the scattering enemy, leaving a trail of bloody bodies. Hathor yanked hard on the halter, turned his horse around, then kicked it into a run once again. He rode straight toward the enemy horses. Tied to a bush, they had panicked at all the noise and the scent of blood, struggling wildly against the ropes that held them. One broke free and bolted back toward the north. A Sumerian struggled to untie another animal when Hathor struck him down. An Akkadian arrow slew another who flung himself across a horse and tried to escape.

“You!” Hathor shouted at the man who’d fired the killing arrow. “Guard these horses! Let no one near them!”

The Egyptian scanned the battleground. Bodies littered the earth, many of them shrieking in pain from their wounds. His horsemen had dispersed all over the area, already reduced to chasing down individuals trying to flee. Hathor ignored all the killing. His men knew what to do. They would finish off every man they could, until their horses could go no further.

Dismounting, he tied his mount’s halter to the same bush that had restrained the Sumerian horses. He had time to give the animal a friendly pat on its shoulder before he walked back to the edge of the camp, toward the man in the blue tunic. He lay facedown, right where he had fallen, and to Hathor’s amazement, the man hadn’t been trampled by any of the following horses. A blood-spattered rock remained beneath the man’s head. Hathor knelt beside him, and rolled him over onto his back.

The man groaned at Hathor’s less than gentle touch. “What happened . . . who . . . ?”

Hathor still had his bloody sword in his hand. He put the tip of the blade against the man’s throat and pushed a little, just enough to draw blood. “What’s your name?”

Fear widened the man’s eyes. He gasped in terror, and lifted his hands as if to move the sword aside.

Hathor pushed the sword a bit deeper. “I won’t ask you again.”

“Eridu! King Eridu of Sumer! Don’t kill me!”

“Well, damn all the demons below!” Hathor said, so surprised that he withdrew the tip of the sword from Eridu’s neck. “King Eskkar wished me good hunting, but I doubt he expected me to catch you in my net.” He lowered his sword, then reached down and using his free hand dragged Eridu to his feet. “You might prove useful, if you do as you’re told and don’t force me to kill you.”

Eridu might have been as tall as Hathor, but he lacked both the bulk and his captor’s powerful muscles. The king’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

Hathor shoved him along until they returned to where he left the horses. A handful of his men were busy looting the bodies. “Tie this one up, hands behind his back. Use his sandal straps and make sure they’re tight. We don’t want King Eridu to escape, do we?” Hathor shoved Eridu to the ground, where he lay gasping as the breath fled his body. “And his feet, too.”

While the soldier trussed up the prisoner, Hathor took another glance around. His men were returning, most leading horses that no longer had the strength to carry their riders. A few even herded prisoners along. Hathor frowned at that. He preferred not to bother with captured soldiers, better to just kill them and get them out of the way, but he knew Eskkar would want to talk to them, to learn why they fought, and what they believed in.

Such ideas reminded him of Lady Trella’s influence on her husband. Hathor had the greatest respect for Lady Trella. She was, after all, the one who convinced her husband to spare Hathor’s life, putting her will against Eskkar’s rage and desire for vengeance, not to mention the demands of every inhabitant of the city of Akkad.

Trella, transformed in a moment from slave to queen, offered her enemy his life, even a chance to return to Egypt if that’s what he wanted. Instead, Hathor had sworn an oath on his honor as a warrior to follow Eskkar wherever he led, and Hathor had included Trella in that promise. In the days that followed, when he was greeted with scorn and contempt, if not outright hatred by everyone in the city, only Trella’s influence and firm acceptance of the Egyptian gradually convinced the people of Akkad to separate Hathor from the atrocities of the Egyptian Korthac.

Since that time, Hathor had discovered a measure of happiness serving Akkad’s leaders. Never before had such feelings filled his life, and he welcomed the opportunity to repay Eskkar and Trella for what they’d given him. Destroying their enemies would help pay back the debt that could never truly be redeemed.

And Hathor had proven himself a skilled leader of horsemen, second only to Eskkar himself. In the last year, he’d worked long and hard with the men he now commanded, turning farmers and villagers into a skilled force of cavalry, a name he recalled from his days in Egypt. The Akkadian cavalry numbered less than fifty men in all, and Eskkar had brought only thirty-two with him on this expedition to the southern border. The rest remained in the city, patrolling the nearby farms. Hathor’s riders had demonstrated their worth today. They’d smashed the remains of the Sumerians and defeated them for the second time in one morning. And he’d captured King Eridu.

His grinning and cheering men returned, congratulating each other and their leader. Every warrior had a story to tell, either a brave act that showed his worth, or something foolish the fleeing Sumerians had done. Even the normally grave Hathor couldn’t resist a smile at some of the stories he heard.

“Enough celebrating for now,” he shouted, at last putting a stop to all the chattering. “Count the Sumerian dead, and finish searching the bodies. Kill any of the enemy wounded that can’t walk. Then gather all the weapons and anything else of value. The prisoners can carry it all back to Eskkar’s camp. There’s no water here, so we need to keep moving.”

The men cheered again, and Hathor shook his head.

“Get moving, you fools. We’ve still got a long ride ahead of us.”

More like a long walk, since the horses were nearly exhausted. Hathor looked down and saw Eridu staring up at him, his eyes wide and mouth open in fear. “And I’m sure King Eskkar will be most glad to honor his neighbor from the south.”

The sun had begun its descent toward the horizon when Eskkar finished his second inspection of the camp. His men had established a strong position, digging a ditch across the easiest points of access, and positioning a good-sized number of pickets on the two main approaches. No force of horsemen would be able to sweep in unchallenged, not that he expected any would dare make the attempt.

Mitrac and his men had arrived a little after midday, struggling under the burden of all the weapons they had captured. Fortunately, they had rounded up a few horses, and used them as pack animals to carry some of the load.

One of the sentries gave a shout. “They’re coming in, Captain! Hathor’s men!”

Eskkar strode to the southern edge of the camp. A ragged group of horsemen appeared. Not really horsemen, he decided, but tired men leading their weary animals. Hathor had sent a rider back earlier with the news of the battle. As soon as Eskkar learned of Hathor’s victory and the safety of his men, he let himself relax for the first time in two days. In fact, he took the opportunity to swim in the stream and clean his filthy tunic. At least the garment wasn’t bloodstained.

That would please Trella, who preferred that he leave any actual fighting to others. They’d had that discussion many times. She insisted that his life was too valuable to risk on an insignificant fight. Eskkar countered by reminding her that a leader needed to fight to maintain not only his honor but his reputation. That argument between them, he knew, would continue, at least as long as he remained alive.

Now Eskkar wanted to hear the details of Hathor’s battle.

Hathor led the ragged procession toward them. A cheer erupted from Eskkar’s archers as Hathor’s men reached the edge of the camp, and soon every soldier was shouting and congratulating each other on their victory. The ragged noise soon turned into a chant. “Eskkar! Eskkar! Eskkar!”

He shook his head at the praise. Once again he had accomplished something out of the ordinary. His soldiers and cavalry had defeated an enemy force that outnumbered them greatly, and had done so with very little loss of Akkadian life. Even Eskkar had worried that he might lose half his men before he achieved this victory.

“Welcome back, Hathor.” Eskkar gave the Egyptian a hug that would have crushed anyone smaller. “You and your men have done well.” Eskkar said the words in a loud voice, so that everyone in the camp could hear. “Did you lose many men?”

“No, Captain, just two men dead and four horses. But we killed forty-four Sumerians, and captured three horses and fifteen prisoners, not a bad exchange.”

“Take care of your men, Hathor, then join me at the tent. You look like you could use a bath and some food.”

“Yes, Captain. Would you take charge of this prisoner until then?”

Hathor moved aside. Behind him stood a single prisoner, held upright by a grinning guard. Eskkar glanced at the foot-sore Sumerian for the first time. Not much of a warrior, the man looked exhausted. Fear showed not only on his face, but in his every movement.”

“King Eskkar, may I present you with King Eridu of Sumeria.”

“No!” Eskkar couldn’t believe his ears.

A laugh went up from Hathor’s men, who crowded around to see their commander’s reaction.

“I asked the scout not to tell you,” Hathor said. “I thought you might enjoy a surprise.”

“Now I want to hear the whole story,” Eskkar said. “Every word. But first take care of yourself and your men.” He reached out, clasped his hand on Eridu’s shoulder hard enough to make the man gasp, and dragged him into the camp. Eskkar guided the Sumerian along until they drew close to the tent. Eskkar had planned to put the prisoner inside, but now he changed his mind. He shoved Eridu to the ground about thirty paces away. “Stay there.”

“Water, King Eskkar. Please. I need water.”

Eridu’s voice sounded hoarse and dry. He might not have had anything to drink since last night. Well and good, Eskkar decided. It would put the Sumerian in a more cooperative mood. “Perhaps later, after you tell me what I want to know.”

Eskkar entered the tent. Eridu’s two playthings clutched each other at the sudden appearance of their captor. Despite his reassurances, they still believed they would end up dead or worse. He had spoken to them before, and even remembered their names. Both were pleasure slaves, fresh from the slave market. Berlit was the taller one, with brown hair that tumbled around her face. Girsu, shorter and darker of hair and skin, possessed an impressive pair of breasts. He sat down on the thick blankets no doubt once reserved for Eridu.

“Sit before me,” he ordered.

“Yes, master,” they said in unison, as they knelt before him.

“I want you to tell me some things,” he said, keeping his voice firm. “If you withhold anything, if you try to lie to me . . . there are a hundred men outside the tent who would be eager to show you their prowess.”

“Yes, master, anything you command,” Berlit said. She clutched Girsu’s hand, as much to reassure herself as her companion.

Berlit seemed the one with the quicker wits, so he started with her. “Describe Eridu for me. I want to know what he looks like.”

The slave girl described Eridu, and after a few sentences Eskkar held up his hand. “Enough.” The prisoner outside the tent was indeed Eridu, not some impostor sacrificing himself for his king.

“Now I want you tell me what Eridu’s plans were, why he sent men across the border, what he wanted to accomplish. I want to know everything you’ve seen and heard for the last few weeks. If you do, I’ll take you back to Akkad with me. My wife will care for you, find something useful for you to do. Otherwise . . .” He lifted his hand and pointed to the tent flap.

They started talking, and soon the whole story came out. They had only been with Eridu for nine or ten days, a gift from one of the king’s wealthy merchants. Eridu had taken possession of them just before he led his men out of Sumer, and decided they should accompany their new master on his campaign.

As Berlit spoke, her voice grew more confident, and the words that had first come haltingly now flowed like a steady stream. Even Girsu joined in the conversation, waving her hands around as she spoke, filling in details left out by her companion.

They were well into their story when Grond and Alexar entered the tent, followed a few moments later by Mitrac. Hathor arrived soon after that, his tunic still wet from its encounter with the stream. The commanders sat behind the girls, so as not to appear threatening, and after a few nervous glances over their shoulders, Berlit and Girsu soon forgot their presence.

Eridu’s slaves talked and talked. Eskkar even interrupted them once to have water brought in for them. The girls had been present during almost all of Eridu’s planning sessions. For the first time Eskkar heard the name of Razrek, the leader of the Sumerian horsemen, who had ravaged the borderlands, and somehow managed to escape Mitrac’s arrows. Even to both wretched girls, this Razrek appeared to be the mastermind of Eridu’s plan.

At last Berlit and Girsu ran out of things to say. “That’s all we know, Lord Eskkar. We were just waking up when the soldiers raised the alarm. King Eridu snatched his tunic and ran outside. That’s the last we saw of him, until you arrived.”

“You’ve done well,” Eskkar said. “You will return with us to Akkad. Something will be found for you there.” Better that than turning them over to his men. Two women tossed among eighty men would start half a dozen fights before the girls died. He turned to Grond. “Send someone to untie Eridu. Make sure he gets plenty of water and something to eat.”

He turned to the girls. “Stay in the tent. You know what will happen to you if you leave. Hathor, come with me. I want to show you something.”

Eskkar slipped through the flap, and all the commanders followed. Outside, he stepped around to the rear of the tent. “We found these in the camp, more than a hundred of them.” He picked up a long wicker shield and held it up. Each shield was covered with hide, and was pierced in the center to form a grip for the hand. When Eskkar raised it up, it covered his body from the chin nearly down to the knees.

“Mitrac’s been shooting arrows at these all afternoon. Our bows will penetrate them, but only at close range.” He tossed the shield aside and stooped to pick up a slim, bronze-tipped lance. “Eridu’s men had about three hundred of these. I think that’s why he didn’t fear our archers. He intended to have the shield-bearers form the first wave, with the rest of their men behind them carrying one or two lances. A quick charge to get close enough to throw the lances, then overwhelm us with their swords.”

Hathor inspected first the shield, then the lance, wrapped at the center to provide a good throwing grip, and nearly as tall as a man. “In Egypt, many of our soldiers carried shields like these, just thick enough to stop an arrow. And the lances, flung with all a running man’s strength, would be deadly at close range. If they could have closed with our archers . . .”

“Our archers would still kill half of them before they got into throwing range,” Mitrac said.

“Perhaps,” Eskkar said, “but if enough did get close enough, we might have lost more than half of our fighters.”

He picked up the lance, and thought about what it implied. A simple weapon compared to the bow, which took months to shape, and relied on bowstrings that snapped all too often, and arrows that had to be straight and true, nocked and feathered, and tipped with bronze. A thrown javelin such as this would pierce a man’s body with ease, the bronze blade emerging from the body’s back. If Eridu had a few more moments to prepare, if he only lost half his men to Akkadian arrows, the remaining Sumerians might have cut down Eskkar’s archers. A grim thought indeed.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Alexar said, breaking the silence. “Everyone knows about the skill of our bowmen. Our enemies will try to find a way to counter Akkad’s archers.”

“In the great siege,” Grond said, “our archers fought from behind a wall. In all our battles outside the city, we’ve had to find a way to protect our bowmen. Even in today’s battle, we were fortunate to arrive at dawn, and with the sun behind us. If the Sumerians had time to gather their weapons and take up these shields, our losses might have been much greater.”

Grond understood the implication as well as Eskkar.

“We’ll speak more about this when we return to Akkad. Now, I think it’s time to talk to Eridu.” Eskkar led the way back toward the tent. The Sumerian sat on the ground near one of the campfires, guarded by two men. His hands had been untied. Eridu looked up as Eskkar and his commanders approached.

“King Eridu of Sumer,” Eskkar said. “Have you eaten your fill?”

Eridu, his mouth hanging open, stared at Eskkar and the grim-faced men surrounding him. “What . . . what do you want?”

“I want to know why you attacked our lands.” Eskkar didn’t bother to keep his voice down. The more his men heard, the better.

“The borderlands belong to no one,” Eridu said, trying to put some authority in his voice. “Sumer and the other cities have as much right to the crops here as Akkad.”

“Still, for two years you recognized the Sippar river as our southern border. You did nothing to lay claim to these lands, said nothing to anyone in Akkad. Instead, you sent soldiers pretending to be bandits to kill our farmers and devastate our lands. You marched across the border with your soldiers, to kill those you knew would be sent against you, and to seize all these lands, and perhaps even more.”

Eridu wet his lips. His eyes darted around, and saw that the Akkadians soldiers had moved closer, all of them eager to see and hear what would be done.

The only sound was the crackling of the nearby fire. “I will pay you a ransom for my safe return to Sumer,” Eridu said.

Eskkar smiled. “You came north to wage war upon Akkad and its people. You wanted to lead your soldiers to a great victory, and have everyone in Sumeria proclaim you a great warrior. But a real warrior should be able to fight his own battles.” He turned to Grond. “Give King Eridu a sword.”

The words had scarcely left Eskkar’s lips before Grond slipped his sword from its sheath and tossed it, hilt first, on the ground, where it landed close to Eridu’s hand. The two soldiers guarding the Sumerian moved back, as did Eskkar’s commanders, creating an open space for the two to fight.

“I won’t challenge you,” Eridu said. He moved his hand away from the sword’s hilt. “Your men will . . .”

“My men will give you a horse and set you free if you win,” Eskkar said. “Hathor, Alexar, you will see to that. Give your oath to let Eridu go free if he wins.” Eskkar took a step back and drew his sword. “You can ride back to Sumer and tell everyone how you killed Eskkar of Akkad in a fight. That should be enough glory for you.”

This time Eridu had to swallow before he could speak. “I won’t fight you. You’re a barbarian . . . you’re a skilled swordsman. I’ll meet whatever ransom you set, anything. I swear never again to send men across the border. Two hundred gold coins . . . three hundred. Petrah, my steward, will see to the payment. That should more than repay for the damage done to the crops and farmers.”

Eridu looked around the ring of men staring down at him and saw nothing but stony faces. He pushed Grond’s sword away with the back of his hand. “I won’t fight you. I’ll pay four hundred coins for my freedom.”

A staggering sum, enough to pay for all the damages and the cost of sending the soldiers south. Akkad could use all that gold, Eskkar knew. If he’d met Eridu in battle, Eskkar would have killed him without question or hesitation. But no one would pay for a dead man. The silence dragged on while Eskkar made up his mind.

“Your ransom will be eight hundred gold coins. From that sum, every one of my soldiers will receive one coin.”

An intake of breath passed through the soldiers at the sum, followed by murmurs of approval. That would be several months pay for most of them.

“But first there is another price to pay, Eridu,” Eskkar said. “You stretched out your hand to take my lands and kill my people. Helpless farmers tortured and murdered, their women raped and killed, their livestock plundered, and the crops burned. For that, there is a separate price. Get him on his feet.”

Grond stepped forward and jerked Eridu upright as if he were a child.

“Alexar, Grond, take hold of his hands. Spread him out.”

The two men extended Eridu’s arms out to either side. Alexar used both hands, clasping Eridu’s left wrist. Grond also used both hands, but he grabbed the Sumerian’s right hand, leaving his forearm bare. Eridu started to struggle, but his captors held him fast, his arms spread wide. Before Eridu could understand what was to happen, before he could prepare himself or plead for mercy, Eskkar’s sword flashed in the firelight, and the sharp bronze blade, delivered with all of his force, sliced through Eridu’s right wrist. Blood sprayed out everywhere.

With a scream, Eridu collapsed on the ground.

“Get him in the fire,” Eskkar ordered.

Grond caught the now helpless Eridu around the waist with one arm, and clasped the handless arm with the other. In a moment, Grond dragged the king toward the campfire and shoved the blood-spurting stump into the flames.

This time the screams went on and on, echoing throughout the camp. Grond needed all his strength to hold the arm in the flames long enough to seal the wound. The smell of burning meat wafted on the air before he pulled Eridu away. With a sob, the Sumerian king fell on his face, his knees drawn up, weeping into the dirt. The pain racked his body again, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

“Get someone who knows how to bandage that up,” Eskkar ordered. Several of the soldiers knew how to treat wounds. He wiped his blade on Eridu’s tunic. “If he lives,” Eskkar raised his voice so all could hear, “he’ll walk back to Akkad, where he’ll stay until his ransom is paid. Tomorrow we start for home!”

A roar went up from the men, and this time it went on and on. They had won a great victory, and their king had outwitted and defeated Akkad’s enemy. Most of all, they would receive a share of the ransom, and that gold made all the hardship and danger of the last ten days slip from their minds. Meanwhile, the Sumerian king had paid a harsh price for his evil deeds, one that he would remember for as long as he lived. And best of all, they were returning home.