Authors: Sam Barone
His warriors weren’t fools. They hadn’t been ambushed, and they’d killed plenty of Ur Nammu and wounded many more, as the bloody rags scattered about attested. But then the tide of battle turned, and they all died, killed by … not enough arrows, not enough to account for so many dead. So riders had joined in the fight, helped by a few archers along the cliff wall. These strangers had turned the battle, probably striking the Alur Meriki from behind. A sudden attack from the rear, even by a handful of determined men, must have changed the battle’s outcome. Instead of wiping out the last of the Ur - Nammu, his men had found themselves trapped between two forces—trapped and annihilated.
The shaft of the arrow snapped between his hands. His warriors had died—vengeance cried out for the blood of those responsible. The Ur Nammu must be destroyed, along with those who helped them.
Thutmose - sin looked up. His men stared at him, waiting for his orders, the silence broken only by the flies buzzing about the dead. What all this meant, he wasn’t sure. But he knew a way to find out.
“Urgo, rebury the dead Ur Nammu.” He ignored the shock on his men’s faces. “Bury them properly, then walk the horses over the ground.
Have the prayer - givers offer up sacrifices to the spirits, to atone for disturbing the dead.”
Without looking back he rode out of the canyon. At the entrance, he called out to Markad and Issogu. “Follow the trail, wherever it leads. Find out where they went. And look to see if a band breaks off and rides to the west. Take as many men as you need.”
Two hours later, he gave the order to camp for the night, at the same place where the Ur Nammu had halted and rested from their wounds. The camp’s fire rings showed that men had used it for several days. Urgo found another of the large arrows from the north, broken off in a tree obviously used for target practice. So the northern archers and the Ur Nammu had become friendly enough to shoot together, no doubt after celebrating the destruction of his men. A broad trail led north, made by perhaps thirty or forty riders.
In the next few days, Markad and Issogu would track the Ur Nammu.
But Thutmose - sin could guess what they would find. The surviving Ur Nammu would flee to the east, and another trail would head west, back toward Orak.
A band of riders from Orak had either tracked the Ur Nammu, or, more likely, his own Alur Meriki raiders. The dirt - eaters then joined with the Ur Nammu or just attacked the Alur Meriki from the rear. Whatever their method, Orak’s riders turned the battle, losing only a few men in the process. Then the two bands of hereditary enemies had camped together for several days, recovering from their wounds and taking time to sharpen their archery skills.
That much time together … that meant whatever the Ur Nammu had learned, Orak’s dirt - eaters now knew also.
Even worse, it told Thutmose - sin that Orak had a leader, someone who knew the ways of war. That meant that the dirt - eaters would fight this time, not run. They’d beaten his men, and such a victory would give them strength. His own losses mattered little. At least the Alur Meriki had effectively finished off the Ur Nammu, ending that conflict at last.
The loss of his own men didn’t trouble him. He had too many warriors as it was. But his men would look at each other and wonder. An Alur Meriki force had suffered defeat, annihilation, something that hadn’t happened in nearly a generation. And that would make his men begin to doubt. They would look at their clan leaders differently. If warriors could be defeated once, then why not again?
Thutmose - sin went over this with Urgo, who sat across from him in silence, unable to challenge his sarrum’s conclusions.
“Your plan, Urgo. Are you still certain we can trap the dirt-eaters?”
Urgo chewed on a blade of grass, taking his time. The loss concerned him, too, since any reduction in warrior numbers limited the number of fighting men available. “We’re driving everyone toward the village. Unless there are so many that they can resist us, we’ll take the village.”
Thutmose - sin stared at his kinsman. “And the wall you say they are building?”
“A wall without fighting men is useless, Sarrum.” He met his leader’s eyes. “Are their fighters now equal to our warriors, after one small skirmish? An ambush, on favorable ground, and with archers on the walls?”
“They have a leader now, someone who knows how to fight, when to fight, someone who can defeat our men.”
“Perhaps, Sarrum. But even a few such men, however strong, cannot defeat all the Alur Meriki.”
“Nevertheless, I want to know more about the war chief who led this force. Find out who he is. If this Orak has a new leader, someone skilled in the ways of war, then we should learn what we can about him.”
–-
For the next ten days, Esk kar spent the mornings with his commanders, preparing for the different kinds of battles they might face. Then he trained with the soldiers, primarily to encourage the men. The Hawk Clan helped build morale by retelling the story of how Esk kar destroyed the Alur Meriki raiders. The embellishments grew with each repetition, and the soldiers’ trust in their leader soared. With the wall nearly finished, their self - assurance increased even more. Esk kar wanted the men to feel confident in their skills and commanders. They’d need that certainty when the fighting started.
The soldiers practiced with sword, spear, and axe. The proud Hawk Clan took the lead, playing the role of attackers, making spirited assaults on the wall. The master archers paced off distances from the wall and half - buried stones in the earth. Painted different colors to mark the distance, the markers allowed the bowmen to gauge the range to their enemy.
The old targets were torn down. Bowmen practiced shooting only from the wall, to make sure they had the feel for every shot. Under Totomes’s guidance they learned to fire volleys at specific distances.
Weapons and food continued to pour into Orak. The refugee traffic on the roads had diminished as the Alur Meriki drew closer, but men continued to arrive, many eager to work or fight, asking only that Orak protect their families. River trade increased, and the ferry plied its path back and forth countless times each day. Every vessel brought some much needed cargo. Stockpiles grew, and everyone complained they had no space to sit or stand.
When Esk kar walked about, the villagers cheered him, calling out his name or wishing him luck in the coming fight. Trella was just as popular, especially with the women, the poor, the children, and the elderly. She visited many of these people daily, assisting and organizing them, and making sure the women knew their roles in the coming fight.
Gatus finally had enough soldiers to train the women and old men.
His men showed them how to fight fires and to use short, stabbing sticks from the wall. Men and women alike practiced using forked sticks to push ladders back.
Hundreds of rocks and stones were carried to the parapet and thrown down by villagers. When one group finished, they recovered the stones for the next group, a labor that went on all day, until everyone’s muscles ached with pain and the rough stones had rubbed their hands raw. Thousands more stones stood in great piles beneath the parapet.
The training for soldier and villager continued until they mastered each technique, tool, and weapon. Women coated every exposed wooden surface inside Orak with a layer of mud, leaving no combustible targets for fire arrows or torches hurled over the wall. The village prepared for the siege, but Esk kar saw as much optimism as fear on everyone’s face.
Esk kar shook his head in amazement at it all. He clapped Gatus on the back and praised him publicly for his labors.
At the end of a long but satisfying day, Esk kar returned home just before sunset. He went first to the well at the back of the house. The luxury of the private well still pleased him. He enjoyed the chance to wash the sweat and dust from his body.
As he fi nished he heard the gate to the courtyard bang open. A ragged youth slipped under the surprised guard’s arm, though the man was stationed there to prevent just such an intrusion.
The boy rushed toward the house, his voice a high - pitched shrill. “Captain, Captain, come quick … Lady Trella’s been stabbed!”
The boy dodged past a servant coming from the house. Bantor appeared in the doorway and grabbed the lad, holding him fast. Esk kar ran up, went down on a knee, and faced the boy.
“Here, lad, here I am. What happened to Trella? Where is she?” Esk kar felt dread growing in his stomach.
“Lady Trella was returning here, when a man came up behind her and drew a knife.” The boy’s high - pitched voice rushed the words together.
“I called out to warn her, but I was too late and he stabbed her. Then he turned to run, but I grabbed his leg and held him until her guard reached him. The guard sent me here to find you.”
“Where, boy? Where is she?”
“In the Street of the Butchers, near the carpenter’s shop.”
“Keep him here!” Esk kar pushed the boy into Annok - sur’s hands as she approached.
Esk kar ran back through the courtyard and out the gate, headed for the Street of the Butchers. Before he’d gone more than a dozen steps a crowd approached, led by a burly soldier carrying Trella in his arms. One arm dangled limply. Her dress, covered in blood and cut open down the side, dragged on the ground. Trella’s eyes rolled in her head and Esk kar couldn’t tell if she was still alive. He recognized the guard, Klexor, assigned to guard Trella that day.
Klexor pushed right by Esk kar as if he didn’t recognize him. Three soldiers of the watch, all white - faced and with drawn swords, followed close behind.
“Is she alive?” Esk kar forced the words out of his throat, his voice hoarse.
The guard carried Trella through the courtyard and into the house.
Someone had cleared the big table and he placed her down gently. Annok -
sur pushed him away and pulled open Trella’s dress. Someone had cut a strip of cloth from the garment and used it to bandage her wound, the fabric wrapped completely around her body, just under her breast.
Esk kar reached the foot of the table. He saw Trella’s breast rise and fall, so she still lived. But her face was pale and blood oozed from her left side.
“Send for a healer.” Annok - sur shouted the words over her shoulder as she placed a folded blanket under Trella’s head.
Klexor stood dumbly where Annok - sur had pushed him. Esk kar strode to his side and grabbed his arm. “What happened? Who did this?”
The man turned and stared at Esk kar for a moment. “Yes, Captain, she’s still alive,” the bodyguard replied, as if recalling Esk kar’s earlier question. “A man stabbed her in the lane. But a healer was passing by and came when he heard the shouts. He bound her wound, then said I should bring her here.” The guard glanced around. “He said he’d follow … ah, there he is.”
An elderly man, his bald pate ringed with wisps of white hair, came puffing through the door. He carried a large leather pouch slung over his shoulder that contained his instruments. Esk kar recognized Ventor, a healer often used by the soldiers. Too common for the upper classes, Ventor was better at binding war wounds than treating headaches or queasy stomachs.
“Don’t just stand there,” Ventor ordered as he headed directly to the table, “bring fresh water and clean cloths. And lamps and candles, as many as you can.”
Annok - sur moved aside for the healer. Ventor opened his bag and used a knife to cut off the crude bandage.
Esk kar stood there in shock, pushed aside by the women. He watched helplessly as Bantor’s wife and another servant wiped the blood from Trella’s body while the healer poured water over the wound.
At first Esk kar thought she’d been stabbed in the chest, but as the blood washed away, he saw the blow had taken her from the left side, starting a little below the armpit and slicing down towards the hip. The long, jagged cut still bled, but Ventor ignored the blood as he washed the wound, pouring water from the pitcher up and down the length of the opening. The bloody water spilled to the floor.
“Bring another pitcher,” Ventor demanded. He took a candle and slowly scanned the length of the wound, holding the flame close to her body.
The examination went on for a long time, before he straightened up and put down the candle. “Nothing in the wound.”
Taking a needle and thread from his pouch, he threaded the needle carefully, then quickly bound the end of the thread with a large knot.
Ventor rinsed the wound one more time, then, assisted by the women who held the flesh together, he began sewing the wound closed.
It was nothing Esk kar hadn’t seen before. He’d suffered the same treatment, even watched while it was done, but this time he had to turn away.
His hands shook and he forced himself to stop, clenching both hands into fists. Bantor’s wife joined Esk kar and her husband.
“I think she’ll live, Esk kar,” Annok - sur whispered. “The wound is long but not deep, and the blade glanced along her ribs. Though I’ve no doubt she would’ve bled to death if the healer wasn’t close by to staunch the bleeding.”
“My thanks to you, Annok - sur. Please stay with her.” Esk kar stared at Ventor, bent low across the table as he finished closing the wound. At last the healer began to bandage his patient, using clean linen brought by the servants. “When the healer is finished, keep him here to watch over her.”
Esk kar faced Bantor. “Now let’s find out who dies tonight.”
He stepped out into the courtyard. He found it full of armed men. A few torches provided light against the deepening darkness. When they saw the grimness on Esk kar’s face, a groan went up.
Bantor called out quickly, “No, no, she lives. The healer is with her.”
A ragged cheer went up, echoed from beyond the wall, and Esk kar realized the street outside must be crowded with people, all concerned about Trella. Two members of the watch pushed their way through the soldiers, dragging a ragged man already covered with bruises, his hands tied tightly behind him and a gag in his mouth. The prisoner shook so hard he would have fallen if the men hadn’t held him upright.