A warrior was forbidden to challenge his leader while on the clan’s business. Anyone who did so without the gravest of reasons risked death or worse when the offending warrior returned and faced his Sarum.
For a moment, Skala hesitated. Obviously he didn’t enjoy the thought of Garal’s arrow in his back, and every rider in the party knew all about Garal and his skill with the bow. Either that, or the thought of facing his commander man-to-man didn’t appeal to him.
“No, Chinua. I meant no offense.” Skala stepped back and sheathed his sword. “This fool of a boy angered me by his disobedience.”
Sargon’s anger flared up again. “That’s a lie!”
Chinua held up his hand, but didn’t take his eyes away from Skala. “Keep silent, Sargon, or I’ll have you beaten.”
Skala’s face flushed an even darker crimson, as he absorbed yet another insult to his honor. Now a horse boy called him a liar in front of his peers.
“I demand the right to kill the dirt eater! My honor. .”
“Your honor will suffer greatly if you attempt to kill our guest. The Sarum’s guest, I would remind you. Not to mention that you would shame your honor to kill a mere horse boy. And did you forget Subutai’s order, not to use the words “dirt eater” in his presence?”
Sargon hadn’t known that. The phrase was used by every warrior to refer to any and all farmers or villagers.
“He cut my arm. He. .”
That was too much for Timmu. “You struck him from behind! I saw you! He did nothing to offend you.”
Skala glared at Timmu, but decided now was not the time to challenge his commander’s son. He faced Chinua. “He was slow to obey my order. He failed to. .”
“And you knocked him to the ground,” Chinua interrupted. “He lost his wits, and you received a scratch on your arm. Or is it anything more than a scratch?”
Every eye went to Skala’s arm. Blood still dripped down his wrist and hand. To Sargon, it looked a lot worse than a scratch.
Skala gave it a quick glance and shrugged, his warrior’s pride refusing to acknowledge any discomfort or pain. “This. . this is nothing.”
“Good. Have the healer bind it up, and we will get back to our supper.”
Garal stepped forward. He still held the bow in his left hand, the arrow nocked on the string. “Timmu, where is the wood for the fire?”
“Makko and Rutba went to collect it.”
Everyone glanced around. Makko and Rutba, alerted by the noise, had raced back to the camp. They slowed to a halt, and stood there, breathing hard, twenty paces away. Each carried a handful of twigs, barely enough to get the fire going, but not enough to sustain it.
Chinua brushed past Skala and strode over to where they stood. “You went out for firewood as soon as we made camp, and this is all you’ve collected? A few sticks?” He didn’t wait for a reply. The heel of his hand lashed out, and caught Rutba, who happened to be closest, in the chest. The boy crashed to the ground, flat on his back.
“Go out and find wood, both of you, enough to keep the fire burning all night. And you will do the same every night for the rest of the ride. Do you understand me? Or would you both prefer to walk back to camp?”
That would be worse than any beating or punishment Chinua might impose. Makko, his head hanging low, glanced toward his father, who turned away. Makko dropped what wood he’d collected and dashed off into the gathering darkness, glad to be away from Chinua’s anger. Rutba scrambled to his feet and hurried after him.
Sargon glimpsed the look on Skala’s face, after yet one more embarrassment to his honor.
Chinua watched them go, then whirled around and faced Sargon and Timmu. “There will be no food for you two tonight, nor for Makko and Rutba. Perhaps a long ride tomorrow on an empty stomach will do all of you some good. And if any horse boy causes the least bit of trouble for the rest of the ride, I’ll have him whipped.”
With that warning delivered, Chinua stalked off into the gathering darkness alone.
Skala, his fists still clenched, strode to the other side of the camp. The tension released, the other warriors drifted away, some of them smiling. More than a few would take discreet pleasure in Skala’s discomfort. All of them would have much to talk about for the next day or two, though Sargon doubted any of them would do so within Skala’s hearing.
Sargon’s knees went weak, and he slumped to the ground. His right hand ached from gripping the knife with all his strength, and his face throbbed as if a burning brand had landed on it. He knew he’d barely escaped death. Against Skala’s sword, Sargon’s knife would have been useless. A few more moments, and Skala would have cut him in half.
Sargon had to take a deep breath before he could speak, and even then, the words were little more than a mumble. “Timmu, thank you for saving my life.”
“Makko and his father are both pigs.” Timmu spat on the ground to show his disgust. “I’m glad you challenged him. My honor wouldn’t let him kill you.”
“Boys have no honor.” Garal’s voice sounded as hard as the look in his eyes. He’d walked away with the others, but had returned, moving as silently as always. “You’ve both been told that often enough. You should have kept quiet.”
“And let him kill Sargon?”
Garal smiled, a quick flash of white in the growing darkness. “Well, not that silent. Now, let me look at your face.”
Sargon lifted his hand to touch his cheek. He felt the wetness and flinched at the pain. The skin was broken.
Garal peered at Sargon’s face. “Oh, yes, you’re going to look impressive in the morning. Nevertheless, you’re lucky Skala didn’t use all his strength. He could break even your hard head with his bare fist.”
If Skala had been holding back, Sargon didn’t want to know what a real punch would have done. His eyes still had trouble focusing.
“See to him, Timmu,” Garal said. “And both of you, try to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night.”
Sargon nodded. It already hurt to talk. With Skala brooding at one end of the camp, and Chinua sitting by himself at the other, none of the warriors enjoyed much conversation as they chewed their strips of dried meat.
The horse boys scurried about their tasks, but without any water or game to cook — the two hunters had returned empty handed — Sargon and Timmu had little to do. Timmu insisted that Sargon get some sleep as soon as possible.
“You’ll need your rest for tomorrow,” he warned. “We’ve another long ride ahead of us.”
The ordeal over, Sargon felt too exhausted to argue. He rolled himself in his blanket and tried to sleep. His throbbing cheek kept him awake for a time, until exhaustion took him and he finally fell into a fitful slumber.
22
When Timmu shook him awake, the sun had yet to make a glow on the eastern horizon. For a moment Sargon wondered why his companion had wakened him so early, but a throb of pain soon reminded him. When he sat up, Sargon’s head seemed to spin on his shoulders. When he lifted his hand to touch his face, he found that the right side of his head had swollen to almost twice its size. The lightest touch sent a wave of pain through his cheek.
“Oh, gods! My head. .”
Timmu handed him the water skin, and Sargon gulped down several mouthfuls. Even that simple act hurt so much he almost dropped the skin.
“Keep quiet,” Timmu whispered, glancing toward the still sleeping warriors. “We don’t want to make any trouble.”
The last thing Sargon wanted was more trouble. He struggled to his feet, but had to lean on Timmu’s shoulder to steady himself.
“Come, Sargon. Let’s get the horses ready.”
Each morning, a few warriors managed to find some reason to complain about the horse boys. Better to start on the day’s tasks early and avoid giving anyone an excuse. Sargon and Timmu groped their way to the rope corral and started preparing the halters. Each rider had his own halter, and it seemed to Sargon that each wanted his horse secured in a particular way.