The barbarian attack slowed, devastated by the hail of arrows at such close range, and the hail of stones that descended from the cliff. Meanwhile, the Akkadian line recovered and hardened. The spearmen were difficult to bring down, and they used their shields as effectively as their swords.
Akkad! Kill! The Akkadian war cries grew louder and stronger, giving strength to Eskkar’s men.
Even the Alur Meriki could not break such a defense. By now more than eight hundred archers and bowmen had each emptied at least a quiver of arrows into the barbarian horde. Their surge halted.
Eskkar sensed the moment had come. “Spearmen! Attack! Drive them back!”
He pushed his way through the archers and flung himself into the line. His long sword swung down, knocking aside a blade and striking deep into a warrior’s shoulder. His bronze helmet and chest plate turned aside an enemy’s sword thrust.
Using his small shield as adroitly as any of his spearmen, Eskkar pressed forward, using his shoulder to knock another man back, and smashing the thick ball of bronze that formed his sword’s hilt into the face of another.
All the Akkadians were shouting now, matching the barbarian war cries in volume, as they moved forward and forced the warriors back. The defenders sensed their opponent’s wavering.
The Alur Meriki had done their best, but the relentless storm of arrows, accompanied by stones flung at them from above, had killed or wounded too many of Thutmose-sin’s warriors to enable the attackers to overwhelm Eskkar’s line. Not enough warriors had survived the crossing to break the Akkadian ranks.
Pushed back a few steps by the Akkadians’ advance, it took only moments before the retreat turned into a rout, as the warriors turned and fled back through the water. Only a few arrows hissed through the air during their retreat. Many of the archers had dropped their bows and taken up swords to contain the assault, while others had expended all their shafts. Splashes roiled the waters of the stream, masking the violent sounds of men cursing and shouting in their rage.
Then the splashes died away. Gradually the water resumed its normal gurgle, as the Alur Meriki disappeared into the darkness, heading back toward their own hill.
Now the cries of the wounded ascended into the night, the awful sound as injured men on both sides writhed in pain, most of them knowing that death would soon take them. Ignoring their cries, Eskkar halted at the edge of the stream, breathing hard. Some of his men had splashed into the water. He raised his voice and bellowed.
“Everyone! Back to the line! Back to the line!”
Holding his shield before him, Eskkar backed away from the stream, glancing frequently to make sure of his footing. Bodies and loose stones, both now covered in blood, might still send a man tumbling to the ground.
His commanders and leaders of ten and twenty repeated his order. Soon all the Akkadian survivors were back in their original position. Every man gulped air as fast as he could, chests rising and falling.
Swords and spears now seemed almost too heavy to hold, and more than a few were dragged along the ground as the suddenly exhausted men stumbled back. Some realized for the first time that they had taken wounds. Others, still caught up in the battle fever, continued to hurl curses at their enemies.
Many Alur Meriki dead remained in the stream, their bodies snagged on rocks or jammed fast against other bodies. One by one, those floated clear of whatever obstruction held them, and drifted away. That, too, lasted only a few moments, before most of the dead were swept downstream, and water ran clear once again.
Only a handful of bodies, those caught on the rocks, still bled into the cold water. The ground between the Akkadian line and the stream remained littered with the dead and dying, along with a collection of swords, lances, bows, and other enemy weapons.
“I don’t think they’ll be back tonight.” Hathor, breathing heavily, had reached Eskkar’s side.
Eskkar shook the battle fury from his thoughts. “The rest of the line? Are they. .”
“We held them all the way,” Hathor said. “These must have been the pick of the attackers. None of the others fought as hard or lasted as long as these did.”
Eskkar could still hear the sounds of the warriors retreating. At least they’d stopped shooting arrows toward the Akkadian side of the stream. “I’ll see to the men.”
Eskkar moved down the line, speaking to his soldiers, talking with Alexar and the other commanders along the way. Before he reached the southernmost part of the line, Eskkar had spoken with almost every leader of ten and twenty he encountered, asking them how they’d fought, and making sure they aided their wounded. He knew his men would remember his concern.
Many men had received a wound, either an arrow or the thrust or slash of a sword. Some of these lay on the ground, tended to by their companions. The piteous cries of the wounded, the aftermath of every battle, fanned the anger of the survivors.
The dead, most with arrows still protruding from their bodies, were dragged to the rear. They would have to wait until sunrise before they could receive whatever burial rites his men could offer.
By the time Eskkar had moved up and down the line twice, the sky in the east had begun to lighten. Dawn approached, and very likely another attack. Nevertheless, the water yet glistened in the faint moonlight, and it still belonged to the Akkadians.
10
The sun had risen over the hills without Thutmose-sin noticing. He sat on a small boulder, his hands hanging at his sides, staring at the ground between his feet. The stunned survivors of the attack surrounded him, but he neither saw nor heard them. For the first time in his life, Thutmose-sin was alone.
More than twenty years ago, Thutmose-sin had stood on the bank of the Tigris and swore to his ancestors that he would never allow the dirt eaters to grow strong enough to threaten the Alur Meriki and their way of life. Now that day had arrived, and he had failed in his duty. Nothing he could do, nothing he could say, would diminish the defeat that he and his people had endured.
His gods had abandoned him, giving their favor to an outcast. They had not even permitted Thutmose-sin an honorable death in battle, and with at least a shred of honor. Instead, he would have to endure the unendurable.
The moans of the injured penetrated the dark cloud of his thoughts. He lifted his head, and tried to comprehend the disaster that had overtaken his people. What he saw wrenched at his heart. Truly, he wished his body lay dead on the battleground.
Those wounded but still able to walk cursed their cuts and slashes as they waited their turn with the healers, who bandaged as many as they could. Those who had survived the battle uninjured or with only minor wounds sat scattered all around, heads down in shame and humiliation. Once again, Alur Meriki fighters had suffered defeat at the hands of the hated dirt eaters, led by a renegade from their own clan.
Thutmose-sin’s fighters had spearheaded the final assault and taken the worst of the casualties. He awaited the final tally of dead and wounded, but knew the numbers would tell a grim story. A healer already had tended to his Sarum’s wounds, binding up a deep cut on his left arm from an Akkadian spear, and a sword thrust that had grazed his ribs.
Neither injury had prevented him from fighting, until what must have been a stone from a sling struck his head, dropping him to his knees, and stunning him.
By the time he’d shaken the weakness from his head, the attack had already failed, and Thutmose-sin’s personal guards, the few who survived, dragged him to safety back across the stream and into the sheltering darkness.
He glanced up as a horse approached. Urgo slid down from his mount, taking his time. Thutmose-sin saw that the old warrior had taken an arrow in the leg, adding to his afflictions, when Urgo led the reserves into the conflict in a futile attempt to turn the tide. Bar’rack and Bekka, on foot, followed behind him. Bloody bandages decorated both men. The two chiefs had fought hard, but failed to break the Akkadian line.