Den’rack led the way toward the wagons, until he was stopped by a party of twenty or so warriors, who rode at the vanguard of the caravan. Den’rack ordered a halt, and Sargon slowed his horse to a stop. No matter what happened, at least the long journey had ended.
An older warrior rode up. His eyes went first to Fashod and the warriors, before giving Sargon the briefest of glances, though he rode at the head of the little troop. The stranger turned to Den’rack. “Why do these Ur Nammu scum still carry their weapons?”
Hearing the warrior’s criticism, Sargon almost felt sorry for Den’rack, who launched into a lengthy explanation of the last few days. As time passed on the journey, Den’rack had gradually relaxed his suspicions regarding Sargon and his companions.
Now Den’rack found himself explaining the unusual situation to a superior. Sargon gathered that the senior warrior’s name was Lugal.
During the latter part of Den’rack’s story, Lugal’s eyes fixed on Sargon. He guided his horse toward Sargon, moving close enough to touch Sargon’s left knee with his own. “You do not look like the. . Eskkar of Akkad.”
Sargon had heard that many times growing up. He didn’t much look like his mother, either. He refused to let Lugal’s glare intimidate him. There were, after all, only so many ways of dying.
“Who I look like is no concern of yours. My business is with your Sarum.”
“Watch your tongue, or I’ll have it cut out.” He reinforced his words by leaning forward and poking Sargon hard in the chest with his left hand.
Not so long ago, such a blow would have toppled Sargon from his horse. But all those days of training with Garal had toughened not only his muscles, but his reactions.
Without thinking, Sargon turned his shoulder, deflecting most of the blow, and keeping his balance. At the same time, he shoved his right knee hard against the side of his horse.
The well-trained animal thrust itself against Lugal’s mount. Sargon increased the pressure of his knee, and reinforced the command with a jerk to the halter.
Lugal’s horse, caught by surprise, stumbled backwards, its rider caught off guard. With a hard kick, Sargon’s horse pushed even harder, and the Alur Meriki warrior’s horse slid to its haunches a few paces away. Lugal managed to retain his seat, but only by clinging to his horse’s mane and flailing around as he struggled to keep his balance.
No one moved or spoke, and only the creak of the approaching wagons broke the silence. Sargon raised his voice. “To lay hands on the son of the King is punishable by death. Touch me again, and I’ll see that your Sarum sends your head to my father.”
It wasn’t true, of course, but Sargon thought it sounded impressive. Apparently the others within hearing thought so, too, since no one spoke, or tried to take his head.
Having righted his horse and gotten control of the still nervous beast, Lugal ripped his sword from its scabbard. “You’ll die right here for that.”
“No! You must not! Remember your oath.” Den’rack’s bellow rose over all of them. He kicked his horse between the two.
Sargon’s hand had already gone to his sword, but before he could draw it, another voice interrupted. “What’s going on here?”
A rider guided his mount into the midst of the knot of warriors, and they moved aside to give him room. A long, jagged scar traced its way from below his left shoulder nearly to his wrist, but the copper link chain that hung around his neck proclaimed him a clan leader. Sargon took his hand from his sword and studied the newcomer. The copper chain held no medallion, so this was not the Sarum.
“These are the strangers that I brought here,” Den’rack said, speaking quickly. “Did my messenger arrive?”
“Only this morning. I did not expect you to arrive so soon. You must have ridden hard.”
Sargon glanced at Den’rack. He had underestimated the Alur Meriki warrior. Obviously Den’rack had not left all his men behind on patrol. He must have dispatched a rider, probably leading another horse, and ordered him to bring word to the caravan.
“We did, Suijan,” Den’rack answered.
Lugal, his face flushed with rage, moved forward. “This. . boy nearly knocked me from my horse. I demand the right to kill him.”
“No, his fate will be decided by the Council.” Suijan didn’t even raise his voice or turn to face the angry warrior. “Put your sword away.”
For a moment, Lugal hesitated. Suijan turned his gaze toward the man, but said nothing.
The rage in Lugal’s eyes faded under Suijan’s stare. With an oath, Lugal shoved his sword into its scabbard, taking three tries before he could master his fury enough for the tip to enter the opening.
“You may return to your duties, Lugal,” Suijan said. “Den’rack and I will take the strangers to the Sarum.” Without another glance at the still raging Lugal, Suijan moved his horse closer to Sargon, exactly as Lugal had.
Suijan gazed into Sargon’s eyes, a scrutiny that went on for some time. “There may be a resemblance, but we will see.” He backed his horse a step away. “Take their weapons. No strangers may enter the camp armed.”
Sargon had nearly flinched under the leader’s stare. This Suijan not only had his wits about him, but he had the air of command.
Sargon glanced toward Fashod. The Ur Nammu warrior had already pulled the lances from his back. He handed them to one of Den’rack’s men, and started untying his sword. Jennat and Garal followed suit.
After a moment, Sargon pulled the lance that he wore across his back and handed it off. But he made no move to give up his sword.
“Your sword and knife, too. There are no exceptions.” Suijan’s voice remained patient.
“My father gave me this sword. I do not hand it to anyone.”
The tension in the air, which had faded somewhat as Fashod and the others surrendered their weapons, returned. Everyone turned to see what Suijan’s next order would be.
Fashod cleared his throat. “Sargon, it would be best. .”
Sargon cut off Fashod’s words with a quick gesture of his left hand.
Suijan let a smile cross his face. “So, that is how it is.” He studied Sargon for a moment. “You have journeyed long, and are no doubt tired. Perhaps you will let me carry your sword. I give you my word that I will return it to you whenever you ask for it.”
Sargon decided that he had proven his strength and authority before the Alur Meriki. Besides, he guessed that Suijan meant what he said.
“That is most courteous. I thank you for your kindness,” Sargon answered, bowing his head in acknowledgement of Suijan’s status. Unbuckling his sword belt, he leaned forward and handed it to the clan leader.
“Come, follow me.” Suijan accepted the weapon with respect. “We will ride ahead to tonight’s camp site.” He turned his horse to the west and started off. Den’rack and his men followed, leaving Sargon and his disarmed companions to trail along behind.
The camp site chosen was only about two miles away, but Sargon realized it would take the rest of the afternoon before the lead wagon arrived. The wagons, he would later learn, considered four or five miles a day a satisfactory journey.
A good sized stream, coming down from the mountains, wandered across their path. Suijan moved toward the higher ground, where the water would be freshest. “Den’rack, mark out a place for them here, and make sure they stay inside. I’ll return later.”
Sargon didn’t like that. “Chief Suijan, I would speak with your Sarum as soon as possible.”
“He is out riding to the south, but he will return before dusk. A rider has already been dispatched.” With a nod to Den’rack, the clan leader turned his horse around and cantered off.
Swinging down from his horse, Sargon couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. It felt good to be off the back of his horse before dark. And still alive. He resisted the urge to shiver at what might come next.
Den’rack posted guards, and marked off an area, using sticks driven into the ground. Sargon didn’t care. He walked into the stream and let himself fall forward. The chilly water, much colder than the stream near the camp of the Ur Nammu, made him catch his breath, but he stayed immersed until his skin glowed.