The fight turned into a melee. Horses bumped each other, screaming and biting. Warriors clung to their mounts and tried to fight at the same time. But the fresh horses of Eskkar’s men pushed the tired animals of the Alur Meriki back, and Eskkar’s long sword rose and fell again and again, spattering blood from both man and beast.

  Attacked from behind by an unknown force, they had no idea how few assailed them. The shouts of Orak’s men rose up and mixed with the cries of the dying and wounded, the din resounding louder in the confined canyon, echoing off the walls and adding to the confusion.

  Eskkar tried to keep track of the battle even as he struggled to master his horse and fight, but the chaos of the combat overwhelmed him as desperate men fought one on one. One moment Eskkar found himself practically surrounded by attackers. In the next, the clashing waves of men left him almost alone.

  A dismounted barbarian flung himself upon Sisuthros and pulled him from his horse. The two men rolled together at Eskkar’s feet. He reached down and pushed his sword’s point into the barbarian’s back as the warrior raised his knife for the killing blow.

  Then Sisuthros was forgotten as another warrior rode at Eskkar, leaning forward over his lance and screaming his war cry. Eskkar had faced lances before and knew he only had to turn the point a few inches to survive. He kicked his horse forward, hugging the animal’s neck and keeping his arm rigid and his sword low until the lance point passed over the tip of the blade. Then Eskkar pushed his sword out and up, catching the wood just behind the bronze tip and feeling it burn its way across his arm. His arm stayed locked and his blade straight as the horses crashed together.

  The hilt of his weapon smashed against the man’s chest before the impact wrenched the sword from his grasp.

  The collision sent Eskkar’s horse to its haunches. Eskkar pitched backward and fell, going heels over head as he hit the earth. From the ground, everything looked different and more frightening. A barbarian spotted the easy victim and twisted his horse around to head for him. But a dozen steps from Eskkar, the horse suddenly reared up, an arrow protruding under its neck, its rider suddenly fighting for control of the dying animal.

  Eskkar scrambled over to the warrior he’d just killed and retrieved his sword. Grabbing the hilt with both hands, Eskkar braced one foot on the body and heaved with all his might, pulling the sword free of both earth and carcass. An arrow hissed by his head, but he didn’t know who shot it or where it went.

  His horse, back on its feet, spun and twisted in panic, too confused to get free of the melee. Three quick steps and Eskkar launched himself across the back of the beast, nearly going over the other side. Struggling to regain control of the terrified mount, he called out to it so that it would recognize his voice. It took a moment to shift his weight and lock his knees on the horse as he reached forward for the halter. Another arrow hissed just beyond the horse’s neck, and this time Eskkar looked up to see another red clad barbarian pitching off his horse a few paces away.

  The moment Eskkar had the halter, the animal steadied. Looking around, he saw the Alur Meriki being pressed back, Orak’s men hacking away like fiends. He stretched his body upward in an effort to see more of the battle. Eskkar spotted six or seven warriors still pressing forward against the yellow riders. The red standard moved closer to a small knot of the unknown tribesmen.

  “Follow me, Orak, follow me,” Eskkar bellowed as he urged the horse forward, aiming the beast straight at the red standard. “Orak, Orak,” he screamed as he crashed the horse against a rider, knocking the other man’s beast back and slashing down with his sword. Then Eskkar burst into their midst, hacking left and right, screaming to his men to follow. The fighting madness came over him again. No thoughts, no fear, just strike and strike again.

  He’d pushed through the line of barbarians who had turned to face the men from Orak. Now he reached the backs of those Alur Meriki fighting the weakening group of yellow riders. He stabbed his sword into the haunches of one horse, then slashed at the head of another wild eyed mount. The stricken and terrified beasts reared up, lashing out with their hooves, their screams joining the battle din.

  Eskkar drove his horse between the two wounded horses, killing one man outright as he struggled to regain control of his mount. Eskkar then turned toward the other and struck downward at the man’s arm. A burst of blood and a scream erupted as the man’s hand disappeared, severed at the wrist. Eskkar whirled forward once again.

  He’d nearly broken through the Alur Meriki ranks, but one of the red warriors wheeled to face him, the two horses standing shoulder to shoulder as the swords clashed. A thick bodied warrior in the full strength of manhood, he struck down at Eskkar’s head. Eskkar blocked the blow, but the man struck again and again. The strokes pushed Eskkar’s blade back, giving him no time for a counterstroke. Eskkar fought harder, trying to overcome with sheer strength what he couldn’t do with skill. But the Alur Meriki proved as strong and determined.

  Eskkar jerked at the halter, trying to disengage, but his horse was trapped from behind. He felt his sword arm growing weaker, and saw the gleam of victory in his enemy’s eyes.

  That light suddenly flickered out when a heavy feathered shaft appeared as if by magic at the base of the man’s throat. The dying man’s horse felt his master’s knees relax and yielded to the pressure of Eskkar’s mount. He rode past the man, whose dying eyes turned toward him as he pushed by. Eskkar’s right arm shook with weakness, but he kicked his horse forward and struck down another man from behind.

  An Alur Meriki rider appeared and crashed his horse into Eskkar’s.

  Eskkar tumbled yet again to the ground, but an Orak rider arrived and cut the barbarian down almost in the same instant. Eskkar gained his feet and lurched toward the last few Alur Meriki still fighting to reach the leader of the yellow riders. Eskkar saw that the clan chief of the yellow riders had been wounded and unhorsed, with a single warrior standing in front of him for protection.

  Again Eskkar’s sword stabbed into the rear quarters of a horse that turned in pain and bucked its rider off, hindquarters lashing out and nearly catching Eskkar in the face. An arrow hissed by and struck down another red marked warrior as Eskkar raised his sword to slash at the legs of the last rider.

  The Alur Meriki saw the danger, turned and swung his sword at Eskkar. He tried to parry the heavy blow, but his sword arm trembled with exhaustion. The impact pushed Eskkar’s blade back and nearly tore the weapon from his grasp. The force of the blow knocked Eskkar to his knees, and he struggled to meet the warrior’s killing stroke.

  But the final stroke never came. The last of the yellow warriors struck the horse a savage blow on the fetlock, crippling the animal and sending it into a frenzy, before it sank to its knees in pain and terror.

  The Alur Meriki rider, fighting to keep his seat, raised his sword toward Eskkar, then turned his eyes toward the last of the yellow warriors. His instant of indecision cost him not only his life, but also any chance to strike a blow.

  Eskkar, still on his knees, thrust out with his sword at his assailant now just within reach, lunging forward with his whole body, determined to strike one more blow, to thrust his blade into his enemy’s body even if he took a death blow in return. The blades of Eskkar and the yellow clad warrior struck at the last Alur Meriki warrior from either side, and the man grunted in agony before he died, with Eskkar’s sword low in his stomach and the barbarian’s blade thrust under his armpit.

  The struggling horse fell on its side, tearing the sword from Eskkar’s grasp. He struggled to get back on his knees and finally managed it. Eskkar reached out and tried to pull his sword free but couldn’t, the fatigued muscles in his trembling arm refusing to obey, and he found himself unable to get to his feet.

  Letting go of the hilt in disgust, Eskkar fumbled for his knife, but there was no need. Looking around, he saw the fight was over. No warrior wearing red survived. Only the men from Orak and the yellow barbarians remained alive, and they immediately began eying each other.

  Eskkar forced himself to his feet, knowing the moment of danger had come. He struggled to catch his breath, and his legs shook with exertion and excitement. He raised his voice and shouted to his men to dismount and put away their weapons.

  The warrior who had shared the final kill with Eskkar turned to help pull his fallen chief to his feet. The younger man, holding the bloody sword he’d pulled from the dead Alur Meriki, looked suspiciously at Eskkar. His chief called to his men who moved quickly toward him, lowering their weapons as they came. Apparently the chief shared Eskkar’s concern about more fighting. The younger warrior repeated the chief ’s words in a louder voice, and this time they made some sense to Eskkar, who hadn’t heard his native tongue spoken for some time.

  At least they weren’t going to start killing each other, if Eskkar understood the chief ’s words. As Eskkar’s men gathered around him, swords still in their hands, but pointing at the ground, Mitrac joined the group, his face flushed with excitement.

  Eskkar wanted to get his men aside, to make sure nothing unexpected happened. He tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Get the horses . . . stand over there . . .”

  He stopped as Maldar stepped up to him and took Eskkar’s left arm and placed it over his shoulder. Sisuthros moved to his other side and grasped him around the waist.

  “You’re wounded,” Sisuthros said, looking down at Eskkar’s right arm covered in blood.

  “Aye, and you can’t stand for shaking,” Maldar added. “We need to bandage that arm, before you bleed to death, and take a look at that leg.”

  The two half carried him to a spot near the canyon wall where the carnage had left some empty space, then set him down. No wonder his right arm had betrayed him, Eskkar realized, as he glanced down at the blood that ran from shoulder to wrist. It must have happened when he turned the lance thrust. The weapon’s tip had sliced open half the length of his arm.

  Eskkar felt his left leg trembling uncontrollably and saw a huge bruise already arisen in the center of his thigh. Getting knocked off his horse must have done that. Suddenly waves of pain shot through his leg, making him gasp. His eyes didn’t want to focus.

  He cursed as he realized that if his thigh bone had snapped, he was as good as dead, unable to ride and so far from Orak. His men propped him against an outcropping of rock, and Maldar ripped a garment off one of the dead and tore it into strips. Sisuthros held a water skin to Eskkar’s lips until he could swallow no more, then poured more over the cut in his arm to rinse most of the blood off and clean the wound before Maldar quickly and efficiently bound it up.

  “How many dead?” Eskkar sat there stoically as they worked on him.

  Sisuthros and Maldar looked at each other, everyone mentally counting.

  “Four are missing.” Sisuthros’s grim voice removed the smiles of victory from their faces.

  “And the horses?” Eskkar had to force the words out. “What of the boys?”

  Sisuthros turned and ordered one man to go back to the canyon entrance and bring back the boys and horses.

  “One boy is dead.” Mitrac squatted on the ground near Eskkar’s feet.

  “I saw him fall.”

  “They were told to stay back,” Eskkar said angrily. A village boy wouldn’t have lasted a moment in that fight. “And the other?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mitrac answered. “They both joined the fight, but I didn’t see him fall. He’s probably dead, too.”

  “I owe you my life, Mitrac, at least twice that I remember.” He turned to Maldar sitting on the ground a few steps away. “And to you, too, Maldar.”

  Eskkar turned back to Mitrac and saw his quiver of arrows held only two shafts. “Better go and collect your arrows, before the strangers use them for firewood.” He looked to Sisuthros, who seemed to have no major wounds. A wave of dizziness swept over Eskkar, and he had to fight to keep his thoughts from wandering. His leg began to tremble again and he gripped his knee to stop it.

  “Look after the men’s wounds. And see to the horses.” They went off to do his bidding, and Eskkar leaned back against the rock as another wave of dizziness blurred his vision. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  It must have been a long moment, for he suddenly sat upright, looking around in confusion. Ishtar’s blood, he must have fallen asleep. A leader should never show such weakness in front of his men. Eskkar tried to get up, but Maldar pushed him back down and held on to his good arm.

  “Rest easy, Captain. You passed out for a while. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  Eskkar recognized honest affection in his voice.

  “And we got some good news as well, Captain. Zantar’s alive. They found him under a pile of bodies, knocked senseless. The barbarians were stripping his body when he awoke. Scared the piss out of him, they did.”

  Maldar laughed at the thought. “And one boy is still alive, that rat of a pickpocket,” he added, referring to the petty thief who’d begged and pleaded his way on the mission. “His arm’s smashed up pretty bad, but he may live. He won’t cut any more purses, though.”

  Eskkar tried to think. They’d lost only three men if Zantar survived—two veterans and one of the newer recruits. Not a bad trade, to finish off a war party of this size. He wondered what the other tribe’s losses had been. Glancing around, they looked to have scarcely more men standing than those surrounding Eskkar.

  Sisuthros returned, slumping on the ground next to Eskkar. “Four dead, counting the boy, and we lost three horses, not counting yours, which one of the barbarians seems intent on keeping for himself. The rest of us are in pretty fair shape, only minor cuts and bruises. We should go back to the stream and get cleaned up. Or at least send for more water.”

  No one knew why wounds washed with clean water healed faster than unwashed ones. “Yes. If they can ride, send them back to the stream. Bring water back for the others.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Sisuthros.” Maldar pushed himself to his feet. “You stay and keep an eye on these barbarians.” In a few moments Maldar had collected all the intact water bags he could find, and he and two others rode off.

  Sisuthros leaned close to his captain and kept his voice low. “I told the men to keep their weapons close, in case they try anything.”

  “Just make sure we don’t start any trouble.” Eskkar wanted their help, not another fight.

  “Captain, the barbarians are stripping all the dead of their valuables. Some of our men tried to do the same but the barbarians put their hands on their swords, so they backed off.”

  “Don’t worry about the loot,” Eskkar said with a tired laugh. “After a battle, all the captured weapons and trophies belong to the chief. He divides it up according to how well each man fought or who’s in most need. Tell the men they’ll get their share.”

  A voice called out from the direction of the barbarians, and Eskkar twisted his head toward the battlefield. The chief of the strange band moved toward him, assisted by the same warrior who’d stood over him during the last of the fight.

  “Here comes their leader.” Eskkar tried to get up, but his leg failed him and he couldn’t seem to manage with his one arm. “Help me up, Sisuthros.”

  Sisuthros put his arm under Eskkar’s shoulder and started to lift, but the younger warrior, now only a few steps away, called out in the trade language, telling him to leave Eskkar on the ground. A few moments later, the commander of the barbarians sat down gingerly opposite Eskkar. The young warrior stood directly behind his chief, a grim look on his face.

  “Greetings, Chief of the Strangers. I am Mesilim, leader of the Ur Nammu. This is my son, Subutai.” He twisted his head slowly, as if in pain, to nod toward the warrior behind him. Mesilim had a great bruise on his forehead and cuts on both his arms, bound up with rags already soaked in blood. He spoke the language of the steppes people. He paused, then glanced at Eskkar’s men sitting nearby.

  Eskkar realized his mistake. When clan leaders spoke, only the chief ’s family or his subcommanders could be present. All others must be out of earshot, lest they heard words not fit for their ears.

  “Sisuthros, move the men away.” Sisuthros looked apprehensive, but led the men about twenty paces away, barely out of earshot.

  Eskkar waited until Sisuthros returned. Sisuthros followed the example of the warrior, and stood behind him. “My name is Eskkar, war leader of the village of Orak, and I give honor to the great clan leader Mesilim who has killed many warriors this day.”

  Eskkar looked up at the son. “And to his strong son who slew all Alur Meriki who dared to face him.” Better too much praise than risk offending anyone’s honor.

  “Your men fought bravely, Chief Eskkar,” Mesilim said, “but I would know why you joined the fight. You ride and dress as people of the farms, and they’ve little love for any steppes people.”

  A delicate way to put it. “People of the farms” was about the politest way a tribesman could say “dirt digger.” Still, Mesilim had made an effort.

  “My people fight the Alur Meriki. Is not the enemy of my enemy my friend? We were on a scouting party when we saw your warriors attacked. Who would not join such brave fighters?”

  The hint of a smile crossed Mesilim’s face. Eskkar wondered whether he’d overdone the praise. Nevertheless, Mesilim and his men would have all been dead by now without Eskkar’s help, though of course the chief couldn’t ever admit that. Out of respect and politeness, Eskkar couldn’t mention it either.

  “It’s as you say, Chief Eskkar. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. You saved many lives today, including my own. But can you tell me why you fight the Alur Meriki? They are a clan of many, many warriors, and the people of the farms cannot stand against them.”

  “It is not our wish to go to war against any of the steppes people, Chief Mesilim. But the Alur Meriki march toward our village with all their strength, and we’ve chosen to fight rather than run.”

  Eskkar saw disbelief cross Mesilim’s face and guessed what Mesilim was thinking—that no farmers stood a chance against such a great force of warriors. “My village has many people, almost as many as in the Alur Meriki tribe. We’ve built a great stone wall around our village, and we will fight the Alur Meriki from the wall, not from horseback.”

 

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