“I’ll ride ahead and speak to them,” Sargon said.
“No. We ride together.” Fashod’s words declared his determination. “Garal, take Sargon’s extra horse, and his lance, too. No sense looking like we want to fight.” Fashod handed his second mount’s halter to Jennat.
Once again, Fashod waved his right arm back and forth. The Alur Meriki still made no sign to acknowledge they had even seen those waving at them. The Alur Meriki rested their strung bows across their horses, but no one had fitted a shaft on them yet. But Sargon knew how fast that could be done.
“Damn them,” Sargon muttered, angry at their silence. He clucked again to the horse, and started the animal forward at a walk. The gap between the two groups closed, and with every step, Sargon waited for the Alur Meriki order that would rain arrows down on them.
He picked out the leader of the party easy enough, a warrior in his prime, with perhaps twenty five seasons. He was the only warrior whose bow remained slung across his back, but a lance lay across the horse’s neck.
Sargon’s heart beat faster and faster, but he forced all fear from his face. From here on, he had to act the part of a leader of men. Sargon tried to copy the stern face his father wore when something annoyed him, a face Sargon had seen often enough, and not from a distance. When twenty paces remained between them, Sargon pulled back on the halter and eased the horse to a stop.
Now only ten paces separated them. Sargon could see the leader clearly now. The warrior possessed a strong and powerful build that rippled with muscles, combined with a face chiseled out of stone. Black as midnight hair hung straight down to his shoulders. Sargon wondered whether he and his companions had, in their bad luck, encountered a hard head, someone who preferred to fight rather than use his wits.
“A good day for a ride.” Sargon offered one of the traditional greetings of the Alur Meriki.
There was no response. Sargon shrugged.
“I am Sargon, son of Eskkar, leader of the Hawk Clan, and the King of Akkad. I have come to speak with Urgo, the Sarum of the Alur Meriki. Can you take me to him?”
Despite the slight differences between the two tribes language, he saw that his words were understood, and thanked the gods for all the abuse Garal had heaped upon him until Sargon learned the language. If the Alur Meriki didn’t recognize his father’s name, Sargon guessed they were all going to die.
The leader of the Alur Meriki frowned and his eyes examined Sargon more closely. “Urgo is no longer Sarum of the Clan.”
The voice sounded as hard as the taut muscles on the man’s chest. Sargon refused to let that bad news show on his face. “Then I would speak with your new Sarum. I have important news that he must hear. A great danger threatens your clan.”
“The Alur Meriki do not heed the words of Ur Nammu scum.” The leader glanced at the three men just behind Sargon, then spat on the ground.
Well, that was plain enough, Sargon thought. The friendly approach didn’t seem to make an impression. All the same, they hadn’t attacked, not yet, so they might still be honoring the oath his father made them swear, to not attack the Ur Nammu.
Sargon moved his horse forward a few paces, so that he stood apart from his companions. This time he put a hard edge to his words, unconsciously mimicking his father in one of his angry moods.
“You are not to decide what words your Sarum is to hear or not to hear.” Sargon waited a moment, then went on. “My father, in case you have already forgotten, granted you access to the waters of the stream when he and his soldiers could have let you all die of thirst. Now, I have important news for the leader of your clan. If you wish your people to survive, you will take me to your Sarum at once. There is no time to waste.”
The face of the leader hardened even more. “You claim to be the son of the outcast Eskkar. Yet you ride alone into the lands of the Alur Meriki with these Ur Nammu dogs.”
“I do not claim to be anyone,” Sargon declared. “I told you who I am. If you do not believe me, take me to your Sarum and let him decide.”
“Perhaps I should just kill you now.”
A ripple of movement went down the Alur Meriki line, as warriors tightened their grips on their weapons and made ready to attack.
Sargon shook his head in disbelief, as if amazed at the man’s stupidity. “I wonder what my father will do when he learns that some insignificant leader of ten killed his son. Do you think that would make King Eskkar angry? Angry enough to wipe every last Alur Meriki from the earth?”
“It seems the Alur Meriki have neither honor nor wisdom.” Fashod moved his horse a few steps forward, until he stood beside Sargon. “They would rather fight than listen to one who could save them.”
A flush came over the leader’s face, and his hand tightened on the haft of his lance. He clearly had not enjoyed being described as insignificant.
This is how it begins and ends, Sargon thought, with a few angry words uttered in the heat of the moment.
“Your father is not here to protect you, even if you are truly Eskkar’s son.”
At least he hadn’t given the order to kill them. Sargon realized that the only thing keeping them alive was his father’s name. “What is your name?”
“Why should I tell you my name?”
“Because I’ve told you mine,” Sargon answered. “Your orders are to scout the lands ahead of the caravan, and report what you find to your clan leader. Now you and your men have found someone who has information that can help your people. You can try to kill us, or you can follow your orders. But do not think your men will protect you, when your new Sarum, whoever he is, learns what you have done. He will take your head and send it to my father, as an offering. So if you want to fight, then give the order and be done with it.”
Sargon moved his right hand to the hilt of his sword, stared into the stony face confronting him, and waited. There wasn’t anything else to say.
A gust of wind rippled through them, and the horses shifted uneasily, ears moving back and forth. It gave the leader of the Alur Meriki an extra moment to consider his response.
“What do you want to tell our Sarum?”
The warrior had weighed his chances and come to the right decision. At least Sargon hoped the man had.
“Since when does a leader of ten sit in on the councils of his clan leaders? Your Sarum will tell you whatever he sees fit.”
“You will tell me. Or you will not go anywhere.”
Sargon leaned forward and took a firmer grip on his sword. “Then you are in my way and I will have to ride over you. If I have to kill you, I will. Your men will not interfere, now that they see that you have forsaken both your oath as a warrior to my father, and your duty to your clan.”
Taking his time, Sargon slid the sword from its scabbard, holding it across his chest so that the blade’s tip was level with his left ear. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the halter. He kept his gaze on the leader, but out of the corner of his eye he saw hands tightening on their bows.
Every Alur Meriki, including their stony-faced leader, recognized the signs of a man readying himself for a fight. Sargon waited, ready to kick the horse forward in a futile attack, four against ten.
“Wait! Put away your sword. I will take you to the caravan. But if our Sarum decides you have wasted his time, I swear to the gods that I will kill you myself.”
Sargon eased his grip on the halter, and let himself lean back. “That day will never come, no matter what your Council of Elders decides.” He carefully returned his weapon to its scabbard. “Then let us ride. We have wasted enough time talking.”
“Stay here.” The words came out in a snarl of rage. “I must speak to my men first.”
With a savage jerk of his hand, the Alur Meriki leader turned his horse around and cantered about a hundred paces away. An order shouted over his shoulder brought his men to him, most of them glancing over their shoulders as they moved away from the Ur Nammu.