Sargon shrugged. “What I want to say is that either you or Garal have more experience leading warriors than I. What formalities had to be observed in front of Chief Bekka and Subutai need no longer be followed. Now that we have left them behind, I would prefer that one of you take command of the warriors.”
Den’rack chuckled. “Ah, but for us, it is even more important to follow what you call the formalities. You were given the command by Chief Bekka, so you must keep it.”
“I agree,” Garal said, “but we should all be guided by Den’rack. He is the oldest and the most experienced. All of our warriors will take confidence if we listen to his advice.”
Sargon nodded at what his mother would call a polite fiction. But clearly Garal wanted to put aside any attempt by his men to take command. It would be Den’rack who offered ‘suggestions.’ Their serious expressions convinced him not to push the issue.
“Then I also agree,” Sargon said. “But both of you must speak your minds. Den’rack, in the morning, you will set the pace. We should travel as fast as possible, but if we can strike a blow at the Elamites, we will need to have enough strength in our horses to fight or outrun any pursuers. Now, perhaps you could share your thoughts with us.”
“We’ve already traveled about ten miles,” Den’rack said. “If we cover thirty miles tomorrow, and again the next day, we should reach the rear guard of the Elamites just before sundown. That would give us time to scout their position before it grows too dark, and then we could launch a night attack, like the one Bekka led against the Carchemishi.”
Since none of them knew exactly how the Elamites had positioned their troops, there wasn’t much else in the way of planning they could do now. They did, however, talk about what they would do if they met any enemy horsemen returning to Zanbil.
When the small war council broke up, Sargon felt satisfied. He had no interest in glory, and was more than willing to give that and any credit to Den’rack and Garal. All Sargon wanted was the opportunity to strike a real blow at the Elamites. Any diversion or delay he and the warriors inflicted on the enemy would relieve pressure on Eskkar and the Akkadians.
Garal’s idea for the raid, Sargon understood, matched what Eskkar would have done. Sargon’s father never let an opportunity pass by to strike a blow against his enemies. Sargon now had the chance to follow that code.
Even so, for the first time since he had ridden out of the warrior staging camp seven days ago, sleep didn’t come easily, and when it did, Sargon’s gloomy dreams kept jerking him awake. He finally recognized the signs for what they were — the fears of a young, inexperienced commander leading older and likely wiser men into battle.
All the same, his commanders needed him to lead. Sargon belonged to neither the Ur Nammu or the Alur Meriki, and so both could follow him into battle without any loss of honor. He had one last thought before he settled into a deeper sleep. Ordering men to risk their lives by following his orders wasn’t as easy as he expected it to be.
In the morning, well before the sun had cleared the high peaks of the Dellen Pass, Sargon and his men mounted and continued their rapid journey, moving as fast as the ups and downs of the trail permitted. The excited jabbering of young warriors, most of them eager for their first battle, soon disappeared under the pressure of the grueling ride. Not to mention that everyone had to struggle with a second horse and the extra supplies.
Noon came and went without event. But just before midafternoon, one of the scouts came racing back to their main troop.
“Sargon,” the man shouted, “riders are approaching.”
Sargon raised his hand and brought the column to a halt. “Did they see you?”
“No. But they can’t be far behind.”
“How many?”
“Not sure,” the scout replied. “At least ten, maybe more.”
Sargon knew the numbers made no difference. Their trail was too prominent and fresh. The Elamites would notice it before they had ridden a hundred paces. The warriors would have to fight, regardless of the odds. At the same time he wondered what had happened to the second scout, but there was no time even to ask the question.
Den’rack and Garal took charge. They placed all the men to the left side of the passage, where a few large boulders offered some concealment. The spare horses and pack animals were handed off to the youngest warriors, who cursed their misfortune, while the rest readied their weapons.
By then Sargon could hear the hoof beats echoing off the rocky walls. Garal and Den’rack moved their horses to either side of Sargon’s mount. Every man readied his weapons, and Sargon unslung his lance. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, and then with a rush, a band of riders appeared, curling around a large boulder that marked the trail.
Den’rack gave a shout. In an instant more than eighty warriors surged forward, screaming their war cries. That sound, as much as the sudden appearance of so many barbarians, panicked the Elamite horses as well as their riders. Caught by surprise in the narrow confines of the Pass, the enemy riders dragged their horses to a halt as they tried to turn them around and flee. But the Elamites had no chance of escaping the ambush.
Leaning forward, Garal launched the first shaft, putting an arrow into the soldier leading the way. More missiles tore into the surprised mass of riders, their path forward now completely blocked by Sargon’s warriors. Then the Elamites were too close for the warriors to work their bows.
Sargon, his mount driving forward as eagerly as the rest, leaned low beside his horse’s neck, his lance clutched tight in his hand. An enemy soldier, a shaft sticking into his shoulder, still managed to draw his sword. Sargon thrust the sharp lance into the man’s chest, knocking him off his horse and tearing Sargon’s weapon from his hand.
He drew his sword, but by then fighting had ended. The Elamites had numbered less than twenty, and all were down, caught by surprise and overwhelmed by numbers. The second scout, brandishing his bow and shouting in triumph, appeared. He had hidden himself while the Elamites rode past, then killed the only enemy who managed to turn his horse about and try to escape back up the Pass.
“Stop the killing,” Sargon called out. “Garal, see if any are still alive.”
Garal flung himself from his horse and sword in hand, inspected the bodies. He gave a shout as he dragged a dazed and wounded man to his knees. The prisoner had an arrow protruding from the fleshy part of his chest close to his armpit. Blood had already soaked his tunic, and more continued to flow.
Either the shaft had unseated the rider, or more likely, his panicked horse had tossed him to the ground. The wounded man was the only survivor, and from the look of his injury, he wouldn’t last much longer.
Sargon dismounted and approached the Elamite. “You’re the only one left alive. If you want to live, you’ll answer my questions.”
Dazed, the man glanced up at the fearsome warriors, many with blood still on their swords, who surrounded him.
“Where were you going, and what message did you carry?” Sargon seized the man by his hair, drew his knife, and held it to the man’s throat. “Answer me now, if you want to live. Or are you eager to die like your companions?”
The words came out in a rush. Just a common soldier, he knew little. The riders were bound for Zanbil, to speed up the delivery of additional supplies. Lord Modran had demanded more food and water, as well as shields and any planks in Zanbil. Apparently Modran had tried a second time to force the Akkadian lines in the Pass and suffered another defeat.
After the battle Lord Modran had become enraged, vowing to break the Akkadian army blocking his way, if he had to kill half his army to do it. Sargon asked a few more questions, but obtained nothing else of value. Exhausted by his wound, the prisoner’s head sagged onto his chest.