Quest for Honour Read online

  The wounded horses still cried out in their fear and pain, a pitiful noise that concealed the cries of any wounded bandits. “Finish off the wounded. Then put those injured horses out of their misery!” he shouted. “And don’t forget to gather up your arrows!”

  He had no idea if the bandits would return, but his men should be able to recover at least half the arrows they’d shot. The archers descended the hill and started killing the enemy wounded. A sword thrust in the neck finished them off. The horses were harder to kill and took longer to die, screaming like women under the clumsy sword strokes of the archers. Mitrac hated killing horses, and their cries only made it worse.

  “Mitrac, here’s a horse for you.” One of his men led a horse to the foot of the hill.

  Mitrac mounted the animal, and began counting the enemy dead. Back and forth he rode, guiding the skittish horse through the bloody grass littered with bodies. The task took longer than he expected, but at last Mitrac returned to the base of the hill. By then his men had captured two more horses, and waited there for him.

  “How many?”

  “Eighteen dead men, and twenty-three dead or captured horses. Good shooting, men.”

  They cheered at the news, as well they should. Every archer had loosed at least ten arrows, some as many as fifteen, at the enemy cavalry. Mitrac did the calculation in his head. At least a hundred and twenty to a hundred and sixty arrows had been launched. With the loss of a single man, his archers had broken the strength of the enemy horsemen. Even if those who got through reached Eskkar’s forces, the surviving Sumerian horsemen would not be sufficient to overwhelm the Akkadians. And if the unhorsed enemy leader remained to the north, he faced a long and hard ride to rejoin his men.

  The plan had worked, and Mitrac felt proud that he had suggested it. He might be the youngest of Eskkar’s commanders, but after this, no one would ever doubt either his courage or his tactics. And that alone made the night’s walk and the morning’s work worthwhile.

  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 o
ne 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 t
he 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.