As Markesh had instructed his slingers before they left camp, they settled down in a rough line about a hundred and fifty paces beyond the stream. Overhead, the faint sliver of the moon moved slowly across the night sky, its journey the only way to tell that most of the night had night already passed.
Dawn was not far off, and Markesh almost convinced himself that there would be no nighttime attack when he first heard the muted scrape of bronze on stone, or perhaps a bow dragging along the ground, faint sounds that grew ever louder, and more frequent.
He remained motionless, his eyes closed so that he could hear better. Soon the little telltale noises grew louder, and Markesh guessed that a sizeable enemy force was moving toward him. Despite their attempts to keep silent, the Alur Meriki could not muffle all the sounds of their approach.
At last Markesh opened his eyes and nodded in satisfaction. As he expected, the Alur Meriki might be fearsome warriors, but they lacked experience in this kind of fighting. The slingers, however, had prepared for an encounter like this, and they could move in near silence. While the rest of Eskkar’s army practiced by day, Markesh and the others like him spent half their time training at night.
The wait seemed endless, as Markesh heard the clumsy movements of the enemy approaching his position. Still, those sounds were not yet loud enough to be heard on the Akkadian side of the stream.
Lying flat on the earth, Markesh’s heart beat rapidly in his chest, and his mouth felt dry, though he had gulped plenty of water before setting out. He wasn’t afraid, not really, but excitement threatened to overwhelm him. Then he glimpsed a dark hump of a shadow moving toward him. Markesh wondered if the approaching enemy could hear his heart pounding in his chest.
He gripped his sling, and took a deep breath. A faint whirr sounded less than five paces to his left. One of his men had struck first. The smack of the bronze ball striking flesh wasn’t loud, but the gasp of pain from the warrior carried over the ground.
Markesh rose to his knees, and spun a missile toward the still-approaching shadow, now less than twenty paces away. A muffled oath marked the bullet’s strike, but Markesh had already ducked back down, and slipped another missile into the sling’s pouch.
All around him, Markesh heard the soft but continuous whirring that marked each throw of a sling. Not every cast scored a hit, but the throws continued, as the slingers hurled missile after missile at any and every approaching shadow. The effect on the warriors proved all that Markesh could expect.
Bekka heard the unseen missiles striking all around him. His men were under some kind of attack, but he could see no one. Only when a stone glanced off the earth, its impact kicking dirt in his face, did he understand what was happening. The Akkadians had moved their slingers, dismissed by the Alur Meriki warriors as a feeble fighting force, into the ground between the stream and Bekka’s position. And now these boys were striking at his warriors with deadly force and at close range.
Neither Thutmose-sin nor any of the other clan leaders had foreseen this. Bekka swore at his own stupidity. Of course the Akkadians would have scouts out in the land beyond the stream. Clenching his teeth, Bekka squirmed forward and hugged the ground.
He’d covered only a few more paces when he realized the plan had broken down. All surprise had vanished with the loud groans of Bekka’s wounded. This invisible enemy had to be swept aside, or they were going to stop the attack before it even reached the stream. Bekka lifted himself to one knee. “Warriors! Attack! Attack!”
He matched his own words. Leaping to his feet, he rushed toward his unseen attackers, sword in one hand, shield in the other. His warriors, as frustrated as their clan leader at this invisible and silent enemy, rose to their feet, let loose their war cries, and charged after their leader. In a moment, two hundred warriors raced through the darkness, as heedless of the slingers before them as of the treacherous ground underfoot.
The night erupted with the battle cries of the Alur Meriki. So far no arrows had come from the Akkadians. A few paces ahead, Bekka now glimpsed men fleeing toward the stream, and guessed these must be the slingers, running for the safety of their lines.
From behind, Bekka heard the first flight of Altanar’s arrows hissing their way toward the Akkadian position. Then Bekka’s own men began to fall, some crashing to the ground on either side, and he heard their curses as the sharp, bronze-tipped Akkadian arrows smacked into their flesh.
Something hummed past his ear, but Bekka kept moving. Twice he stumbled over the loose rocks the Akkadians had scattered on the bank, but both times he regained his footing. Then he reached the stream, and splashed into the chilly water.
The force of the current slowed him down, but Bekka lunged forward. Younger and more agile warriors surged ahead of him, kicking up plumes of cold water. Several fell on the slippery footing and crashed headlong into the water. Others went down and failed to rise. Death had taken them. Bekka heard the curses of the wounded join with the war cries of his men.
Breathing hard, he staggered onto the far side of the stream. By now Bekka could see the white blurs that marked the faces of the enemy. Already a few of his men flung themselves onto the Akkadians.
Then Bekka reached the enemy line. With a savage whirl, he knocked a spear aside and swung his blade with all his strength. A scream of pain burst into his face. More of his men surged out of the water and reached his side, cutting and hacking with their swords, others thrusting with their lances. Shouts of rage mixed with the cries of the wounded. He glimpsed men falling all around him, and wondered when the arrow or spear tip would rend his own flesh.
The Akkadian line sagged for a moment, but it held, and as fast as Bekka could swing his blade, another sword or spear thrust at his breast. Arrows shot at such close range ripped into his men, turning war cries into screams of pain. Twisting and dodging, he fought back. At the same time, he urged his men to break through the enemy’s line.
While the front lines of both forces fought grimly, archers on both sides kept pouring shafts into the ranks. Altanar’s warriors continued shooting their arrows as they charged forward. Bekka cursed as one of his fighters stumbled to the earth, an arrow in the back of his neck. The two forces had closed together, and Altanar’s bowmen had little to aim at.
Bekka might be struck from behind by his own kind, the worst way to die. He crouched down as he fought. The Akkadian archers launched shafts so fast that most of his men were killed or wounded even before they could bring their swords into play.
A spear burned along his left side, and Bekka stepped into the thrust and shoved the point of his blade into the spearman’s face. Then the crush of warriors pushed him forward and up against the front rank of the Akkadians. Bekka voiced his battle cry as he struggled to free his sword arm. They were going to break through the enemy’s line. He could feel it.
Another Akkadian spear thrust at his belly. He shoved it aside with his sword, but before he could react, the thick edge of a shield smashed into his forehead, knocking him backward. As Bekka struggled to regain his footing, a sword cut into his right arm, sending a wave of pain through his body and making his own weapon slip from his fingers.
A strong arm caught Bekka by the shoulder and dragged him back, away from the carnage of the line. Then Bekka’s feet felt the cold water of the stream. All around him warriors were falling back, away from the battle line and their Akkadian pursuers.
Bekka shook himself free and took a step back toward the Akkadians.
“It’s over,” Unegen shouted. “The attack has failed.”
Bekka glanced to his left and right. Unegen pulled him back into the water, and in a moment, they had joined the others, moving as fast as they could. Arrows still hissed into their midst, and Bekka waited for the one that would strike him down and take his life. Then they were across the stream, stumbling through the rocks and back into the dark shadows.