Authors: Sam Barone
Esk kar jerked at the halter, trying to disengage, but his horse was trapped from behind. He felt his sword arm growing weaker, and saw the gleam of victory in his enemy’s eyes.
That light suddenly flickered out when a heavy feathered shaft appeared as if by magic at the base of the man’s throat. The dying man’s horse felt his master’s knees relax and yielded to the pressure of Esk kar’s mount. He rode past the man, whose dying eyes turned toward him as he pushed by. Esk kar’s right arm shook with weakness, but he kicked his horse forward and struck down another man from behind.
An Alur Meriki rider appeared and crashed his horse into Esk kar’s.
Esk kar tumbled yet again to the ground, but an Orak rider arrived and cut the barbarian down almost in the same instant. Esk kar gained his feet and lurched toward the last few Alur Meriki still fighting to reach the leader of the yellow riders. Esk kar saw that the clan chief of the yellow riders had been wounded and unhorsed, with a single warrior standing in front of him for protection.
Again Esk kar’s sword stabbed into the rear quarters of a horse that turned in pain and bucked its rider off, hindquarters lashing out and nearly catching Esk kar in the face. An arrow hissed by and struck down another red - marked warrior as Esk kar raised his sword to slash at the legs of the last rider.
The Alur Meriki saw the danger, turned and swung his sword at Eskkar. He tried to parry the heavy blow, but his sword arm trembled with exhaustion. The impact pushed Esk kar’s blade back and nearly tore the weapon from his grasp. The force of the blow knocked Esk kar to his knees, and he struggled to meet the warrior’s killing stroke.
But the final stroke never came. The last of the yellow warriors struck the horse a savage blow on the fetlock, crippling the animal and sending it into a frenzy, before it sank to its knees in pain and terror.
The Alur Meriki rider, fi ghting to keep his seat, raised his sword toward Esk kar, then turned his eyes toward the last of the yellow warriors. His instant of indecision cost him not only his life, but also any chance to strike a blow.
Esk kar, still on his knees, thrust out with his sword at his assailant now just within reach, lunging forward with his whole body, determined to strike one more blow, to thrust his blade into his enemy’s body even if he took a death blow in return. The blades of Esk kar and the yellow - clad warrior struck at the last Alur Meriki warrior from either side, and the man grunted in agony before he died, with Esk kar’s sword low in his stomach and the barbarian’s blade thrust under his armpit.
The struggling horse fell on its side, tearing the sword from Esk kar’s grasp. He struggled to get back on his knees and finally managed it. Eskkar reached out and tried to pull his sword free but couldn’t, the fatigued muscles in his trembling arm refusing to obey, and he found himself unable to get to his feet.
Letting go of the hilt in disgust, Esk kar fumbled for his knife, but there was no need. Looking around, he saw the fight was over. No warrior wearing red survived. Only the men from Orak and the yellow barbarians remained alive, and they immediately began eying each other.
Esk kar forced himself to his feet, knowing the moment of danger had come. He struggled to catch his breath, and his legs shook with exertion and excitement. He raised his voice and shouted to his men to dismount and put away their weapons.
The warrior who had shared the final kill with Esk kar turned to help pull his fallen chief to his feet. The younger man, holding the bloody sword he’d pulled from the dead Alur Meriki, looked suspiciously at Eskkar. His chief called to his men who moved quickly toward him, lowering their weapons as they came. Apparently the chief shared Esk kar’s concern about more fi ghting. The younger warrior repeated the chief ‘s words in a louder voice, and this time they made some sense to Esk kar, who hadn’t heard his native tongue spoken for some time.
At least they weren’t going to start killing each other, if Esk kar understood the chief ‘s words. As Esk kar’s men gathered around him, swords still in their hands, but pointing at the ground, Mitrac joined the group, his face flushed with excitement.
Esk kar wanted to get his men aside, to make sure nothing unexpected happened. He tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Get the horses … stand over there …”
He stopped as Maldar stepped up to him and took Esk kar’s left arm and placed it over his shoulder. Sisuthros moved to his other side and grasped him around the waist.
“You’re wounded,” Sisuthros said, looking down at Esk kar’s right arm covered in blood.
“Aye, and you can’t stand for shaking,” Maldar added. “We need to bandage that arm, before you bleed to death, and take a look at that leg.”
The two half - carried him to a spot near the canyon wall where the carnage had left some empty space, then set him down. No wonder his right arm had betrayed him, Esk kar realized, as he glanced down at the blood that ran from shoulder to wrist. It must have happened when he turned the lance thrust. The weapon’s tip had sliced open half the length of his arm.
Esk kar felt his left leg trembling uncontrollably and saw a huge bruise already arisen in the center of his thigh. Getting knocked off his horse must have done that. Suddenly waves of pain shot through his leg, making him gasp. His eyes didn’t want to focus.
He cursed as he realized that if his thigh bone had snapped, he was as good as dead, unable to ride and so far from Orak. His men propped him against an outcropping of rock, and Maldar ripped a garment off one of the dead and tore it into strips. Sisuthros held a water skin to Esk kar’s lips until he could swallow no more, then poured more over the cut in his arm to rinse most of the blood off and clean the wound before Maldar quickly and efficiently bound it up.
“How many dead?” Esk kar sat there stoically as they worked on him.
Sisuthros and Maldar looked at each other, everyone mentally counting.
“Four are missing.” Sisuthros’s grim voice removed the smiles of victory from their faces.
“And the horses?” Esk kar had to force the words out. “What of the boys?”
Sisuthros turned and ordered one man to go back to the canyon entrance and bring back the boys and horses.
“One boy is dead.” Mitrac squatted on the ground near Esk kar’s feet.
“I saw him fall.”
“They were told to stay back,” Esk kar said angrily. A village boy wouldn’t have lasted a moment in that fight. “And the other?”
“I’m not sure,” Mitrac answered. “They both joined the fight, but I didn’t see him fall. He’s probably dead, too.”
“I owe you my life, Mitrac, at least twice that I remember.” He turned to Maldar sitting on the ground a few steps away. “And to you, too, Maldar.”
Esk kar turned back to Mitrac and saw his quiver of arrows held only two shafts. “Better go and collect your arrows, before the strangers use them for firewood.” He looked to Sisuthros, who seemed to have no major wounds. A wave of dizziness swept over Esk kar, and he had to fight to keep his thoughts from wandering. His leg began to tremble again and he gripped his knee to stop it.
“Look after the men’s wounds. And see to the horses.” They went off to do his bidding, and Esk kar leaned back against the rock as another wave of dizziness blurred his vision. He closed his eyes for a moment.
It must have been a long moment, for he suddenly sat upright, looking around in confusion. Ishtar’s blood, he must have fallen asleep. A leader should never show such weakness in front of his men. Esk kar tried to get up, but Maldar pushed him back down and held on to his good arm.
“Rest easy, Captain. You passed out for a while. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Esk kar recognized honest affection in his voice.
“And we got some good news as well, Captain. Zantar’s alive. They found him under a pile of bodies, knocked senseless. The barbarians were stripping his body when he awoke. Scared the piss out of him, they did.”
Maldar laughed at the thought. “And one boy is still alive, that rat of a pickpocket,” he added, referring to the petty thief who’d begged and pleaded his way on the mission. “His arm’s smashed up pretty bad, but he may live. He won’t cut any more purses, though.”
Esk kar tried to think. They’d lost only three men if Zantar survived—
two veterans and one of the newer recruits. Not a bad trade, to finish off a war party of this size. He wondered what the other tribe’s losses had been.
Glancing around, they looked to have scarcely more men standing than those surrounding Esk kar.
Sisuthros returned, slumping on the ground next to Esk kar. “Four dead, counting the boy, and we lost three horses, not counting yours, which one of the barbarians seems intent on keeping for himself. The rest of us are in pretty fair shape, only minor cuts and bruises. We should go back to the stream and get cleaned up. Or at least send for more water.”
No one knew why wounds washed with clean water healed faster than unwashed ones. “Yes. If they can ride, send them back to the stream. Bring water back for the others.”
“I’ll take care of it, Sisuthros.” Maldar pushed himself to his feet. “You stay and keep an eye on these barbarians.” In a few moments Maldar had collected all the intact water bags he could find, and he and two others rode off.
Sisuthros leaned close to his captain and kept his voice low. “I told the men to keep their weapons close, in case they try anything.”
“Just make sure we don’t start any trouble.” Esk kar wanted their help, not another fight.
“Captain, the barbarians are stripping all the dead of their valuables.
Some of our men tried to do the same but the barbarians put their hands on their swords, so they backed off.”
“Don’t worry about the loot,” Esk kar said with a tired laugh. “After a battle, all the captured weapons and trophies belong to the chief. He divides it up according to how well each man fought or who’s in most need.
Tell the men they’ll get their share.”
A voice called out from the direction of the barbarians, and Esk kar twisted his head toward the battlefield. The chief of the strange band moved toward him, assisted by the same warrior who’d stood over him during the last of the fight.
“Here comes their leader.” Esk kar tried to get up, but his leg failed him and he couldn’t seem to manage with his one arm. “Help me up, Sisuthros.”
Sisuthros put his arm under Esk kar’s shoulder and started to lift, but the younger warrior, now only a few steps away, called out in the trade language, telling him to leave Esk kar on the ground. A few moments later, the commander of the barbarians sat down gingerly opposite Esk kar. The young warrior stood directly behind his chief, a grim look on his face.
“Greetings, Chief of the Strangers. I am Mesilim, leader of the Ur Nammu. This is my son, Subutai.” He twisted his head slowly, as if in pain, to nod toward the warrior behind him. Mesilim had a great bruise on his forehead and cuts on both his arms, bound up with rags already soaked in blood. He spoke the language of the steppes people. He paused, then glanced at Esk kar’s men sitting nearby.
Esk kar realized his mistake. When clan leaders spoke, only the chief ‘s family or his subcommanders could be present. All others must be out of earshot, lest they heard words not fit for their ears.
“Sisuthros, move the men away.” Sisuthros looked apprehensive, but led the men about twenty paces away, barely out of earshot.
Esk kar waited until Sisuthros returned. Sisuthros followed the example of the warrior, and stood behind him. “My name is Esk kar, war leader of the village of Orak, and I give honor to the great clan leader Mesilim who has killed many warriors this day.”
Esk kar looked up at the son. “And to his strong son who slew all Alur Meriki who dared to face him.” Better too much praise than risk offending anyone’s honor.
“Your men fought bravely, Chief Esk kar,” Mesilim said, “but I would know why you joined the fight. You ride and dress as people of the farms, and they’ve little love for any steppes people.”
A delicate way to put it. “People of the farms” was about the politest way a tribesman could say “dirt digger.” Still, Mesilim had made an effort.
“My people fight the Alur Meriki. Is not the enemy of my enemy my friend? We were on a scouting party when we saw your warriors attacked.
Who would not join such brave fighters?”
The hint of a smile crossed Mesilim’s face. Esk kar wondered whether he’d overdone the praise. Nevertheless, Mesilim and his men would have all been dead by now without Esk kar’s help, though of course the chief couldn’t ever admit that. Out of respect and politeness, Esk kar couldn’t mention it either.
“It’s as you say, Chief Esk kar. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
You saved many lives today, including my own. But can you tell me why you fight the Alur Meriki? They are a clan of many, many warriors, and the people of the farms cannot stand against them.”
“It is not our wish to go to war against any of the steppes people, Chief Mesilim. But the Alur Meriki march toward our village with all their strength, and we’ve chosen to fight rather than run.”
Esk kar saw disbelief cross Mesilim’s face and guessed what Mesilim was thinking—that no farmers stood a chance against such a great force of warriors. “My village has many people, almost as many as in the Alur Meriki tribe. We’ve built a great stone wall around our village, and we will fight the Alur Meriki from the wall, not from horseback.”
Mesilim looked down at the ground, too polite to show either his doubts or disgust with such an un - warrior - like strategy. Instead he explained his own clan. “My people first fought the Alur Meriki more than two years ago. We fought bravely and killed many of them, but they overwhelmed us with their greater numbers. Now the Ur Nammu are almost gone. Most of our warriors have been killed . Only we are left to carry on the fight. Almost all our women and children … dead or taken by the Alur Meriki.” His voice couldn’t conceal the sadness of his heart. “We fight on because I’ve sworn the Shan Kar against them, though it might have been better if I’d fallen in battle today.”