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 infantry’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!”

“Akkad!” The shout burst from his men’s lungs, as they took a dozen steps forward. More arrows tore into the Sumerian center. More archers arrived, to add their shafts to the carnage.

It was more than the Sumerians could bear. Some took a step backward, others turned and tried to shove their way out of the line. They’d fought bravely enough, but there seemed to be no end to these blood-crazed Akkadians.

Even those men from Larsa, still driven by their thirst for revenge, began to fall back. Some turned to run. Arrows ripped through the mass of men. Without shields to protect their backs, every arrow brought a man down. The retreat turned into a rout. Then it became a slaughter as the Akkadian spearmen – freed from the pressure of the enemy – summoned up one last effort, regained their footing, and returned to the attack.

Mitrac expended his last shaft. Clutching his bow in his left hand, he drew his sword and charged. “Kill them all! Kill them all!”

Breathing hard, Eskkar ran after the Ur Nammu horsemen. The Tanukhs were falling back, despite the smaller number of Akkadians facing them. Blood covered the slippery ground, and bodies of the dead and wounded lay everywhere. One red standard still stood, and he raced toward it, still gripping the lance in his left hand.

The battle now raged at close quarters. Victory or defeat depended on dozens of individual combats raging all over the battleground. All Eskkar could do was try and kill as many of his enemies as possible.

“Akkad!” His powerful voice bellowed above the din of battle. “Follow me! Akkad!” No matter what happened, he swore to cut his way through and reach the Sumerian king.

Men fought all around him, but almost all were mounted. A Tanukh fought against one of the Ur Nammu warriors. Ducking between the two, Eskkar thrust up with the lance at the Tanukh, the bronze tip digging into the man’s left side. The wounded man broke away with a cry, wheeling his horse and bolting for the rear. Eskkar kept moving, ducking and shifting his way through the mass of milling men and animals. He burst past the last of the Tanukh line, astonished to see the entire force falling back, some already galloping off to the rear.

The lone red standard stood atop a slight rise in the ground, and he advanced toward it. Bodies lay all about, many with arrows protruding from them. A handful of Sumerians, most struggling to control their mounts, saw him coming. One man on foot wore a burnished breastplate, and held a sword upright in his hand. Shulgi.

Eskkar moved forward. “Akkad!” His cry pierced the clash of weapons and the shouts of men fighting. To the right of Shulgi’s standard, Eskkar saw the Sumerian infantry giving way. Their archers led the retreat, some tossing their weapons away to run all the faster. What remained of the Sumerian spearmen followed, some still trying to retain their ranks as they moved backwards. A few started to run, and once that started, Eskkar knew it wouldn’t stop. The Sumerians had broken, and not even a counterattack from Razrek’s cavalry could save them now.

Three of Shulgi’s guards kicked their horses forward. Eskkar never slowed. When only a few paces from the oncoming riders, he flung his arms up, lance and sword jutting toward the face of the center horse, trying to panic it. “Akkad!!”

Either Eskkar’s bellowing charge or the lance flashing before its face made the lead animal dig in its heels, its rear haunches sliding to the ground. Eskkar shifted to his left and drove the lance into the horse’s shoulder, while his sword, thrust forward with all his strength, slipped under the center horseman, still trying to regain control of his mount. Eskkar’s blade passed completely through the man’s stomach.

The remaining rider, after taking a wild cut at Eskkar’s head, pulled his mount around, his sword swinging down. Ripping lance and sword free, Eskkar flung himself to the ground, and the sword stroke passed a hand’s length over his head. Then he pushed himself to his feet. The lance bit again, this time into the horse’s hindquarters.

The horse reared, and Eskkar felt something strike his chest. He stumbled backwards, then tripped over a body. Another Sumerian fighter – this one on foot – appeared, his sword thrust down to pin Eskkar to the earth. Eskkar rolled toward him, flinging his body into the man’s legs.

A sword hissed through the air, as Chinua thundered by, his long sword taking the surprised man’s head from its shoulders and sending a spray of blood into the air. Shulgi thrust at Chinua as he galloped past, but missed the Ur Nammu warrior. Other Akkadian horsemen arrived, killing a few of the Sumerian king’s guards and driving off the rest. In a few moments they’d cut Shulgi off from the rest of his men. Soon a ring of Akkadian and Ur Nammu warriors surrounded the king of Sumer.

Eskkar used the haft of the lance to help himself to his feet, drinking air into his lungs. He realized the battle was over. Everywhere he looked men were fleeing the battlefield, avoiding the circle that held their king. Sumer’s army was finished. All Eskkar had to do was give the word, and his men would cut Shulgi down or take him prisoner. Eskkar saw Chinua ride back to the edge of the ring and halt. He knew what the Ur Nammu expected.

His army defeated, his guards driven off, Shulgi saw death circled all around him. But the Akkadians and their barbarian allies held back. They wanted to see the two leaders battle. Shulgi hefted his shield into position and waited.

Eskkar gulped more air into his chest. The fierce fighting had tired him, while Shulgi still possessed all his strength. But Eskkar’s honor demanded that he fight. His men had followed him into battle, and they had done what he asked of them. It had taken many of their lives to bring him to the heart of the enemy. Now it was up to Eskkar to finish the conflict.

Shulgi looked around him and understood. Unafraid, he moved forward, now only a dozen paces from Akkad’s king. “At least I’ll have the satisfaction of killing you before I die.”

Eskkar shifted the lance in his hand and tightened his grip. Days of practicing with the cavalry had taught him how to use the weapon that way. Shulgi either didn’t understand its use, or didn’t care. The Sumerian edged forward, making sure of his footing as he advanced.

“Throw down your sword, Shulgi. I’ll let you live. You can surrender your –”

“Better to die after I kill you, you filthy –!”

Eskkar knew better than to heed an enemy’s words. He struck first, jabbing the lance toward Shulgi’s face. The shield rose to deflect it, and Eskkar struck at Shulgi’s left leg with a vicious overhand stroke from his sword. But the Sumerian recovered and shifted away before the blow could strike, though the blade knocked a clod of dirt and sand from the earth.

Shulgi laughed and circled to his right. “You’re slow, old man, with your clumsy weapon. I’ve killed a dozen horse-fighters with their long swords.”

Behind Eskkar, the sounds of battle began to fade. More and more men joined the circle, to watch the two leaders fight. Even a few Sumerians, having thrown down their weapons in surrender, now stood on the ring that encircled the two fighters. Eskkar gritted his teeth. No matter what the cost, he could not allow Shulgi’s taunts to continue.

At least Eskkar had recovered most of his breath. He attacked again, sword and lance, thrusting and cutting, shifting his feet, even leaping over a body. But Shulgi danced away each time, using his shield and short sword effectively, counter-striking at every opportunity.

Eskkar kept up the attack, trying to overwhelm the younger man with sheer strength. Blade clashed against blade, and this time Shulgi stood toe to toe. Twice he used his shield to force Eskkar back. The bloody grass littered with weapons and debris hindered both fighters. Eskkar knew what would happen to the first man to slip and fall.

“Better summon your archers to finish me, barbarian, before it’s too late.”

Shulgi attacked for the first time, his short sword flashing in the sun as it sought to weave a deadly web of bronze around his enemy.

After three hard strokes, Eskkar broke off the contact, leaping back and to his right, away from Shulgi’s sword arm. The Sumerian’s strokes were too quick, too powerful for Eskkar’s long sword to counter for long. By now his chest again heaved with the exertion.

“Too proud to call on your men, old man?” Shulgi taunted. “They see what’s happening.”

Eskkar used his anger to attack, but Shulgi met his advance, his shield absorbing the vicious overhand strike of Eskkar’s blade. Only the slim lance in Eskkar’s left hand kept Shulgi’s sword at bay. Another four or five hard strokes forced Eskkar to give up the attack, once again moving back and to his right. His right arm was weakening, and he knew Shulgi could feel it, too.

And then he remembered. Many years ago Eskkar had fought a skilled and powerful swordsman, a warrior so strong that even Eskkar’s strength and youth could not defeat the man. A trick had saved Eskkar’s life then, a gamble that would leave him open to a deadly stroke if it failed. Still, he felt the sword growing heavier in his hand, the blade sagging a little lower after each attack. Eskkar realized he would not last much longer against his younger opponent. He took one deep breath.

“Time to die, boy king!”

As the last word left his lips, Eskkar attacked with a ferocity that took every bit of his remaining strength. The blades clashed again and again, mixed with the dull thud of sword against shield. Stroke followed stroke, until Eskkar felt himself weakening. He threw himself back and to the side, as he’d done twice before.

Shulgi had waited for the same moment. As soon as Eskkar shifted, Shulgi, moving with a blur of speed, turned to his left, lunged forward, and struck at where Eskkar’s unprotected sword arm would be.

But Eskkar had not fully shifted his body, and instead of dodging to the right, he flung himself forward and to his left, diving under Shulgi’s overhand swing that would have cut Eskkar’s arm in two if he’d moved as Shulgi expected. Instead, Eskkar slid onto his left knee, and thrust the point of his sword into Shulgi’s exposed armpit, the weapon’s tip piercing the laces that bound Shulgi’s breastplate and stopping only when the blade bit against the shoulder bone.

Shulgi whirled around and struck downwards, but Eskkar had already rolled away, wrenching his sword loose and regaining his footing. Blood poured down Shulgi’s side as he advanced again. He lunged at Eskkar’s head with his sword, and Eskkar nearly failed to raise his blade in time to parry the stroke.

The Sumerian king tried to raise his sword for another attack, but his arm muscles refused to obey, and Eskkar struck the weapon aside with his own. Shulgi flung himself forward, raising his shield and trying to smash into Eskkar and bring him to the ground.

Eskkar closed in, lowering his left shoulder and smashing his body against the shield. Shulgi, moving slower, couldn’t shift to the side as he done before. Eskkar’s weight now flung Shulgi backwards. The Sumerian’s heel caught on the outflung leg of a body and he crashed onto the trampled earth. The sword fell from his hand. Shulgi looked up, unable to lift his right arm, already growing weak from the blood loss that streamed down his right arm and side.

Shulgi tried to recover his sword, but Eskkar placed his left sandal on the blade, pinning it to the ground. He had to take two breaths before he could get control of his words. “I told your father . . . he should have stayed in Sumer. You should have learned from what happened to him.”

Blood now soaked the ground beneath Shulgi’s arm. The Sumerian glanced at his right arm, already covered in blood, and then laughed. “A trick . . . to keep yourself alive. The mighty Eskkar.” He coughed, tried to laugh, then coughed again, this time spewing blood from his mouth onto his chest.

“Enough talk, Sumerian.” Eskkar thrust down, not with his sword, but with the lance in his left hand. The slim bronze tip tore into Shulgi’s throat and buried itself in the earth. His eyes bulged with pain, then rolled up into his head. The body twitched for a moment, then lay still. The boy king of Sumer had at least died bravely, fighting to the last. A warrior’s end, and better than his father’s.

Eskkar didn’t care. He straightened up, letting go of the lance, and looked around the circle of men. It had grown in depth, and it seemed as though half the Akkadian army had stopped and watched the brutal demise of Shulgi’s ambitions.

A cheer started, at first just a few men, then more, until everyone joined in. The realization that they had not only won the battle, but destroyed the enemy and killed its king sank in. They had survived and would live. The jubilation rose in intensity, until every voice shouted the same refrain. “Akkad! Akkad! Akkad!”

He let the chant go on, until their voices ran out of breath. Eskkar raised his sword, forcing himself to keep the blade steady. “You’ve won a mighty victory!” Another cheer answered him. “Now on to Sumer!”

This time the roar shook the battlefield. A new cry went up. “Death to Sumer! Death to Sumer!” It went on and on, this time accompanied by the clamor of men crashing swords against shields, until the sound came from every voice and floated from horizon to horizon on the warm air.

Two miles away King Naxos of Isin sat on his horse, his advisor Kuara at his side. The two men had slipped out of the city, and ridden south before swinging around to the east, taking care not to be seen by the handful of Eskkar’s men still guarding the ditch. All over the horizon, they saw hundreds and hundreds of men running or riding away, all of them heading south. Many would flee to Isin, but Naxos had already given orders to admit only those who could prove they lived there.

Suddenly, a roar ascended into the heavens, a mighty cheer that echoed over the ground.

“That will be Shulgi’s death knell,” Kuara said, shaking his head in disgust. “His army is destroyed. Now Eskkar will march to Sumer and tear it down.”

Naxos shook his head. “I doubt it. The Sumerians would be fools to resist, and Kushanna is anything but a fool. She’ll slip away, or come up with some idea to turn aside the Akkadian’s sword.”

“Well, if anyone can talk their way out of trouble, she’s the one. Do you think Eskkar will turn his fury on Isin?”

“He may be a barbarian,” Naxos said, “but he’s no fool, either. He knows he’ll need as many allies in Sumeria as he can get. With Larsa gone and Sumer’s wealth exhausted, Akkad needs our trade to recover, just as we need theirs. No, he’ll keep his word and spare our city.”

“Then we’ll have to ally ourselves with him.” Kuara sighed. “Still, it may not be so bad, if Akkad directs its trade to Isin. In a few years, we’ll be strong again.”

Naxos had reported his encounter with Eskkar to his advisor, but hadn’t mentioned that Eskkar had invited him to visit Akkad. “Perhaps I will visit the barbarian’s city for myself.”

Kuara glanced at him. “You’d put yourself within reach of Trella’s power? Why would you risk your life to go there?”

“Ah, to meet Lady Trella, of course.” Naxos laughed. “Sooner or later, Eskkar is going to get himself killed. Some day she may need another strong leader to protect her.”

Kuara shook his head. “If what Eskkar told you is true, you just escaped Kushanna’s poison, my king. I don’t think you should be taking yourself from the path of one viper and placing your neck in front of another.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. After all, only the gods know what the future holds.”

“I doubt if that particular future is in the stars.”

Naxos laughed. “Well, the years will tell us. Now let’s get back to Isin. We’ve got to fill in that ditch as soon as possible.”

The first thing Razrek felt was a fly buzzing around his face. He lay flat on his back, something hard pressing against his spine. His eyes refused to open, and all he could make out was a reddish haze. Blood, he decided. It took all his strength to raise his hand and rub it across his eyes. First one eyelid, then the other broke loose from the dried blood, and the fierce mid-morning sun nearly blinded him. Razrek closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain. Something had struck his head, but he couldn’t remember . . .

The silence washed over him. He heard no sounds of fighting, no horses crying out, nothing. Razrek used the pain to force himself fully awake. The battle had ended. No matter which side had won, he had to get to a horse.

“Here’s another one still alive.”

Razrek squinted into the sun, but couldn’t see the speaker. He tried to sit up, but a foot planted itself firmly on his chest.

“This one’s a commander, at least,” another voice remarked. “Look at that fancy knife!”

Razrek twisted his head and gazed upward. A boy had moved into view over him, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder and a long knife in his hand.

“Should be good for a few coins.”

Another boy joined the first, his shadow blocking out the sun. Razrek saw a sling hanging from the second boy’s neck. He, too, carried a long knife in his hand. Both blades, Razrek realized, were stained with fresh blood.

“Should we take him to Shappa? He may be someone important.”

“And give up what he’s carrying? Your wits are slow today, little brother.”

Before Razrek could reach for his knife, the second youth dropped down and thrust his blade into Razrek’s neck. The powerful stroke sent the sharp point straight through the flesh and into the earth.

Pain lanced through Razrek’s throat and head. He flailed his arms, trying to grasp the knife, but already he felt blood gurgling up. Choking, he thrashed about, but the pressure on his chest increased. His muscles failed him, and the pain slipped away. His eyes remained open, and words still reached his ears.

“Look at this purse! We’ll never have to work again!”

“Hurry, before anyone sees! Strip the body. He may have more concealed in his tunic.”

For Razrek, the bright morning sun faded to darkness as the two slingers finished looting his dead body.

By sundown the Akkadians had established a camp about a mile north of the battlefield, every man and beast stumbling wearily northward until they reached the chosen site. The burst of energy after the defeat of the Sumerians had faded. Exhaustion set in, as well as sadness. Many in Eskkar’s army had died, though not as many as he’d expected. The wounded – and there were many – needed to be cared for. With the river now clear of Shulgi’s men, more riverboats arrived to deliver food and take those who could not walk back to Akkad.

Eskkar sat before the fire, staring into the flames. Every muscle in his body ached. His right arm still felt numb, and he’d had trouble controlling his horse on the brief ride upriver.

A wine skin lay close at hand, and he’d already finished at least two cups of the strong drink. One more and he’d sleep well tonight, though he’d pay for it in the morning. Right now, it didn’t seem to matter.

Alexar limped up, as weary as any man in the army. He had taken a spear in his leg. Despite that, Alexar had been the first to recognize the black mood that descended over Eskkar after Shulgi’s death. Alexar regrouped the men and organized the brief march north. He slumped to the ground beside Eskkar.

“I’ve got a rough count of our dead, Captain.”

“How bad?” Another grim aftermath of every battle – the dead friends and companions, the wounded who would die later. Eskkar knew there was no escape from Alexar’s tidings.

“About two hundred cavalry dead. Less than fifty archers, and almost half of those died on the boats. The slingers did better than anyone expected. Only forty dead.”

“The infantry?”

“Two hundred and forty dead. Many of the survivors took wounds.”

Including Gatus, who had died with Eskkar’s arms around his shoulders. Eskkar had wept for the old soldier, who had flung his life into the battle to save his line from breaking. At least he died as he would have wanted, standing alongside his men and fighting to the end.

Grond had died as well, overwhelmed by a dozen men after he raised a mound of dead around himself. And probably still struggling to reach Eskkar’s side. Klexor had died, too, riddled by enemy spears when his horse went down almost as the fighting ended. Muta had taken his command when his leader fell. A dozen paces away from where Eskkar sat, Drakis lay wrapped in bandages. Four years ago the man had nearly died fighting in Akkad, and now he was gravely wounded again. He would be on the first boat returning to Akkad in the morning.

The list of dead could have been far worse, Eskkar knew. The gods had favored him once again. Either that, or Gatus’s training had kept most of the men alive, including himself. The slim Akkadian lance had kept Shulgi’s sword at bay just long enough.

Eskkar’s own victory over Shulgi counted for little. Every man watching had seen the younger man wear down his older opponent. In truth, Eskkar had won only by a trick, a desperate gamble that should have failed the first time he tried it, let alone the second. It bothered him that he hadn’t been able to kill Shulgi outright, but staying alive was what counted, not how you did it. Eskkar knew what Trella would say when he told her. “In time they will only remember that you faced the king of Sumer in battle and slew him.”

He would send her word of the victory tomorrow. She’d had her own victory over the Alur Meriki to celebrate. That didn’t matter, either. Only that the city would remain safe and free, and that Sargon would grow stronger every day. The threat from Sumer had been eliminated. Once Eskkar stamped out Kushanna and her nest of snakes, peace would return to the land, at least for a time.

In the morning, Hathor would take the brunt of the cavalry and ride south. Despite today’s victory, Eskkar intended to give Sumer no time to recover, raise more troops, or prepare a defense. Hathor had somehow come through the fighting almost unscathed. His dark Egyptian gods must still be protecting him. He would ravage the lands around Sumer, and seal it off from any river traffic. By the time Eskkar’s army arrived, the city might have already surrendered.

“Drink some more wine, Captain, and get some sleep,” Alexar said. “You need the rest.”

Eskkar glanced up. Alexar’s voice showed his concern. It always surprised Eskkar when others showed honest affection for him. And Alexar had his own wound to prove his courage. At least his commander knew how great the danger had been, and how lucky they were to survive it.

Without stopping, Eskkar emptied the wine cup, tossed it aside, then fell back against the hard ground. More than two years had passed since this war began, but it had finally ended. Once again Trella would be kept busy helping the city recover. Better than anyone, she knew how to heal the wounds in the countryside and in the city. But peace would soothe the pain, and in time, Akkad would grow strong again, with its walls raised ever higher until, like mighty arms, they spread their protection around Trella, their son, and their children yet to come.

Eskkar looked up at the stars blazing overhead. Now he knew what they foretold. Long life for himself and Trella. A son to carry on their line, other descendants who would live through them and through the ages. Most of all, Akkad would grow strong and prosperous again. The empire encompassing all the land between the two rivers would be ruled from Akkad, not Sumer. And that, Eskkar decided before he fell into an exhausted and troubled sleep, made all the fighting worthwhile.