Standing just behind the ranks of spearmen, Eskkar and Mitrac watched the slingers move into position. Eskkar’s eyes had lost the keenest of his youth, and his ability to see into the night’s shadows had suffered as well. It took some time to discern the crawling men. If they made any noise, he couldn’t hear it over the gurgling of the stream, and he doubted if any Alur Meriki could either.
Then the line of skirmishers vanished. “I can’t see them any more.”
The moment he uttered the words, Eskkar swore under his breath. Of course he couldn’t see them. They weren’t supposed to be seen. He hated revealing his nervousness by making foolish statements.
“They’ve moved away from the stream,” Mitrac said. “I can just make out the last of them disappearing toward the hill.”
Eskkar gritted his teeth, grateful for the darkness that hid his frustration. Still, the master bowman Mitrac, raised in the vast distances of the northern steppes, had better eyesight than most men.
“Now we wait.” Only the growl in his voice betrayed Eskkar’s tension.
“I’ll go check on my bowmen,” Mitrac said, no doubt glad for the excuse to leave the King’s brooding presence.
All the Akkadian archers, including Hathor’s men, sat on the ground, their weapons ready. The men tried to rest, catching a few moments of sleep when they could, but always prepared for battle. If the barbarians attacked, arrows would be flying everywhere, and every man who wielded a bow needed to be ready.
Eskkar had already made his own preparations, donning the bronze plates that formed a layer of protection across his chest and back. A bronze helmet lined with leather fitted snugly on his head, with flanges on each side that extended down to cover his temples, and reached nearly to the back of his neck. Eskkar had first worn the armor at the battle of Isin, more than eight years ago.
Since then, he always wore the helmet and chest plates when he practiced his swordsmanship. The extra weight and bulk tended to slow him down, and forced him to work his muscles harder on the exercise ground.
At least twice a year Trella made sure the bronze laces and shoulder straps fit perfectly. She understood that the more natural his movements, the more likely he would survive.
Tonight he felt grateful for the added protection. Unlike most of his men, who would be kneeling or crouched over, Eskkar would be standing upright and moving up and down the line. The small shield he’d brought with him from Aratta would help, but he couldn’t depend on that alone. Arrows would be plummeting from the darkness, and the more protection, the better.
Like most soldiers, Eskkar had his own personal fear. Some men envisioned a sword piercing their bellies, others trembled at the thought of a blade in their groin. For Eskkar, it was the vision of an arrow striking him in the eye, carrying his death on its point. He shrugged the gloomy image away, and concentrated on his duty.
Moving along the line, he reached Hathor’s position at the center of the Akkadian position. The Egyptian had no bow, but close to his hand five lances had been thrust into the ground. Hathor could fling the slim, bronze-tipped weapon with the best of his men, whether from horseback or standing on the ground. He, too, had a shield slung over his shoulder.
Eskkar resisted the urge to ask if Hathor’s men were ready. If any of them weren’t, Hathor would have told him. “Can you see anything?”
Another stupid question had slipped past Eskkar’s lips.
“Nothing, Captain. It’s as black as a demon’s cave out there.” Hathor keep his eyes on the far side of the stream. “If anyone’s out there, I hope the slingers find them.”
Eskkar grunted. “Damn all this night fighting.”
From the hill that overlooked the Alur Meriki camp, Bekka moved his men forward, creeping down the hill and hugging the darkest shadows. Over two hundred warriors followed behind him, each making their way as best they could while trying to make as little noise as possible. Progress remained slow, however, and he heard the muffled curses mixed with the faint clink of bronze weapons scraping over the rough ground.
The distance from the hill to the stream, only a short ride on horseback, took much longer than expected for men on foot. By the time Bekka reached the halfway point, he knew the first part of Thutmose-sin’s plan had already gone astray. He and his men would be late getting into position.
Every twenty paces, Bekka lifted his head and looked toward the Akkadian camp. At last he glimpsed the silvery gleam of the stream, now less than two hundred paces away. He thought he could hear the water rushing along. Dropping to his knees, he continued his slow march forward, his men following his example.
Despite the noise from the stream, Bekka decided the Akkadians would hear them coming long before his men got into position. Many of the extra fighters assigned to Bekka’s command consisted of old men and young boys. Both lacked the hard discipline of mature warriors. They would fight and die bravely enough, but it was too much to expect them to move silently.
Bekka swore under his breath at the too frequent noises behind him. To his ears, it sounded as loud as a mounted charge. Once again he wondered if the war gods had determined to claim his soul tonight. He cursed the Akkadians for drawing him and the Alur Meriki into this night fight.
Thoughts of death, something no warrior should acknowledge, had lurked in Bekka’s thoughts since Thutmose-sin had selected him to ride out and meet with Eskkar. The leader of the Alur Meriki had picked Bekka, one of the youngest chiefs, instead of the older and wiser leaders like Suijan or Praxa. Thutmose-sin hadn’t bothered to explain his choice, and his curt voice when he announced his decision had silenced any questions from the others.
Still, Bekka had seen the looks on the other chiefs’ faces. Bekka might have been at the stream longer than any of the chiefs, but that seemed like a weak explanation. Bar’rack’s selection was merely to test Eskkar’s willingness to be drawn into a fight.
Bekka pushed these thoughts from his mind. Whatever Thutmose-sin’s reason, it no longer mattered. Bekka’s duty demanded that he do his utmost in the attack, and he knew how slim the odds were that he would survive the coming encounter.
Though no one expected the dirt eaters to be sleeping at their posts, Bekka hoped to catch them at least slightly off guard, giving the attack a chance to succeed. Besides their bows and swords, most of Bekka’s force carried lances, more useful weapons at close range.
Fifty paces behind Bekka, Altanar would be guiding his own clan and half of Bekka’s, keeping three hundred warriors ready to support Bekka’s attack when it began. Altanar’s men would rise up as one and launch the first volley of arrows, arching them high to avoid striking Bekka’s men, to break the ranks of the dirt eaters. Or so Bekka had told his men. The thought of taking an arrow in the back from his own kind didn’t appeal to him.
He swore again at the slow progress. The plan that had seemed reasonable enough around the council fire now appeared fraught with danger. Bekka’s forces leading the attack were going to take heavy losses.
He just hoped they succeeded in their task. A warrior’s main duty was to fight, but Bekka hated the thought of dying for nothing. He and his men had to buy enough time for Thutmose-sin and the brunt of the Alur Meriki forces to launch their assault.
That meant that Bekka and Altanar had to keep fighting until their Sarum attacked. Bekka had no doubts about the fighting ability of these Akkadians. He’d seen them prepare to attack his warriors on the hill, and their cold efficiency in cutting down the riders in the steam. Win or lose tonight, Bekka knew it was unlikely he would survive.