A fighting man’s weapon, his father would say, not one to be carried around the city to impress the idlers and tavern dwellers. Sargon recognized the work of Asmar and his family, the master sword-makers in Akkad. This sword would not fail Sargon.
Since only warriors approved by the clan leaders could carry such a weapon, Sargon understood the significance of the gift. From this day forward, in their eyes he’d become a warrior.
“I’ve done nothing to earn this.” Sargon slid the blade back into its scabbard.
“Makko received his sword last night,” Garal said. “He’s done no more than you. You both have earned the right.”
“In these times, many young men must become warriors.” Fashod’s voice now held a hint of urgency. He swung himself onto his horse. “It’s almost midmorning. Time to go.”
Sargon grimaced, but he buckled his new sword around his waist. He settled onto his horse, and the four men rode out, almost unnoticed. He’d spent the last sixteen days on the back of a horse, and this new journey promised to be longer and more difficult. At least he’d learned the difference between riding, and running for your life.
Even Garal didn’t look happy at the prospect of another arduous ride. Jennat had enjoyed an extra day’s rest. Fashod, aside from his usual rides to inspect the camp’s outlying guards, had spent most of the last ten days close to his tent.
All of them tried to forget the somber mood that had filled the camp. Fashod never looked back. Well before midday, the camp site would be empty, and the Ur Nammu on the run.
Fashod set a rapid pace from the start, and he selected the path. Each rider led his second horse, its only burden a bulging water skin, a fat food pouch, and a small sack of grain for the horse.
Out of habit, Sargon had taken his usual place at the rear, but Garal waved him forward.
“Your place now is to ride with Fashod,” he shouted with a grin. “On this journey I will be the one gathering firewood.”
Garal and Jennat carried bows, and each man’s quiver contained an extra handful of arrows. As leader of the little troop, Fashod had a pair of lances on his back. Sargon had accepted one also, in addition to his sword and knife. He knew that he was not as proficient with a bow yet, and for him, the lance was a better weapon for close fighting.
Fashod led the way northeast, toward the mountains, pushing the horses as hard as he could. The grassy terrain made for smooth riding, and they stopped only to rest their mounts. With each rider alternating between two horses, the four men covered plenty of ground by the end of the day. The sun had already dipped below the horizon before Fashod gave the order to halt.
Though his days as a horse boy had ended, Sargon still had to care for his two horses. On this ride, each man saw to his own animals, checking them to make sure they remained sound. One thing had not changed. Sargon fell asleep the moment he rolled himself up in his blanket.
The sun’s pink rays had just reached out over the horizon when Garal shook Sargon awake. The horses received their handful of grain, the men gulped down some dried meat, and with a grunt, Fashod ordered them to move out.
At noon, Fashod halted to rest the horses. Sargon stretched his stiff leg muscles by walking around in circles. His backside once again complained from the constant riding, but he knew better than to say anything.
“You’ve become a capable horseman,” Fashod said, as they tended to their horses.
“Garal is a good teacher,” Sargon said. “How far have we come?”
“Mmm, yesterday, maybe sixty, maybe seventy miles. So far today, another thirty-five. We should get at least that much more in before darkness.”
No wonder the steppes warriors generated so much respect. To cover so many miles in a single day was almost beyond belief. Most people in Akkad or the nearby villages never traveled more than twenty miles from the place where they were born.
“And where will we find the Alur Meriki?” Garal’s voice held only curiosity, not concern.
“Ten days ago, one of our patrols spotted them about this distance,” Fashod said. “So we may meet up with them any time now.”
So the moment of truth might arrive with little warning, Sargon decided.
“Sargon, when we encounter them, do you wish me to speak to them?”
The polite question carried subtle implications. Fashod might be a leader of the Ur Nammu, but when they crossed paths with the Alur Meriki, things would be different. Sargon felt Garal and Jennat’s eyes on him, as they waited to hear Sargon’s answer.
Sargon hesitated only a moment. “No, I think it is best that I speak with them.” With those words, he committed himself to dealing with the Alur Meriki, not as one of the Ur Nammu, but as a leader of Akkad.
Fashod nodded. “Then prepare your thoughts now while you have time. The moment may come suddenly. Now let’s get going. The horses have had enough rest.”
But we haven’t. Even so, Sargon thought of Tashanella and kept his weakness to himself. The punishing ride continued. Soft white clouds filled the sky, and gave them a respite from the hot sun. As they moved north, the ground began to rise, a gradual upslope that would increase as they drew closer to the mountains.
The middle of the afternoon had just passed when Fashod slowed his horse to stop. Sargon, wrapped in his thoughts, lifted his head at the unexpected halt. Instinctively, he followed Fashod’s gaze.
About a mile and a half way, a band of riders had gathered across a ridge top. Sargon had good eyes, and even at that distance he could see that the color red dominated their garments, with red streamers dangling from lance and bow tips.
They didn’t move, just sat on their horses, watching. Sargon counted ten of them, and there might be any number of them behind the ridge.
“Closer than I expected. I didn’t think we’d catch sight of their scouts until tomorrow.” Fashod stared at them for a moment, then turned to face Sargon. “They’ll expect us to turn around. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Ready or not, the time had come. Sargon touched his heels to the horse, took the lead, and guided it into a canter, heading straight for the Alur Meriki outriders.
Fashod now took position on Sargon’s left, his horse half a length behind Sargon’s. The Alur Meriki horsemen watched them approach, but did nothing, no doubt thinking that if their old enemy wanted to close with them, so much the better.
“I would stop a quarter mile from them,” Fashod advised. “That will tell them that we wish to talk, not fight.”
Sargon nodded, and kept his eyes on the horsemen. He didn’t trust his voice. The clan that had tried to kill his father so many times waited ahead. Sargon knew that even in Eskkar’s prime, he would not have challenged ten warriors with only four.
At about a quarter mile, Sargon eased his horse to a gradual stop. Fashod held up his empty right hand, and waved it back and forth. If he held a weapon, it would have been a challenge to fight. But the open hand signified a wish to speak.
The Alur Meriki did nothing. They remained immobile on their horses.
“They’re not waving us on,” Sargon said.
“No, they’re not. Which means they don’t want to talk to us.”
Sargon frowned at the insult. “Well, they will.” He clucked to his horse and urged it forward once again. He kept the pace at an easy canter. Halfway there, he could see the Alur Meriki warriors speaking to each other.
“No Ur Nammu has spoken to an Alur Meriki in over twenty years,” Fashod said. “Perhaps we should head for a different part of the ridge, so we can face them on equal ground.”
Sargon didn’t answer, and he kept heading straight toward the warriors, giving them the advantage of the higher ground. He halted a hundred paces away, just within long bowshot range.