Sam Barone: Conflict of Empires

Viran barked the same commands used on the training ground, but now his voice added urgency to his men, and they dug deep into their waning reserves of strength to obey. Fortunately, no enemy archers were targeting Viran’s boat, though out of the corner of his eye he saw plenty of shafts still striking Yavtar’s vessel.

The first volley from Viran’s ship rose up into the air almost like a flight of birds, one shaft leading the others. At this distance, and without a high place to observe the targets, Viran knew he wouldn’t be able to see the effects of his men’s arrows. But like all of Akkad’s finer marksmen, he had faith in both his weapon and his men’s ability. He glanced at his bowmen on either side.

“Pull those shafts, you lazy dogs! Make sure every arrow reaches those banners!”

As he gave the command, Viran set the example. Aiming his arrow high toward the still climbing sun, he dragged the feathered end to his ear, fighting against the tension and the tiredness in his arms, and released. The thick bowstring twanged and slapped hard against his wrist guard as the shaft tore its way up into the air. A puff of air pushed it forward, before it began its descent.

As he nocked another shaft, he wondered if he would ever know what effect his men’s arrows would have this day.

T he small flight of arrows rained down on Shulgi’s bodyguards. Only a half dozen reached the place where the Sumerian king stood. A bodyguard took a shaft in the thigh, but despite the knot of men surrounding the king, the rest failed to strike any other targets. Except one. One arrow dove deep into the rump of a horse, ridden by a bodyguard positioned just behind Shulgi. The wounded beast bolted forward, crashing into Shulgi’s mount, and driving the Sumerian king and his horse into the two archers. The arrow aimed at Eskkar’s head flew wide, and both archers were knocked to the ground. The terrified animal, wild with pain from the thick shaft and unable to move forward, then reared up and began striking out with its hooves.

With a curse, Shulgi found himself fighting to keep his seat. His horse was struck in the neck by a flying hoof from the enraged animal beside him. Both horses reared up, biting and kicking at each other, but Shulgi’s mount lost its footing and crashed to the earth, taking the king with him.

His shoulder took the brunt of the fall, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a moment he lay pinned beneath his kicking horse. Then the frantic animal found its footing, struggled to its feet, and bolted off to the rear, away from the noise and confusion. The other horse, maddened by the pain in its rump, continued bucking and rearing, until one of the guardsmen struck it across the head with his sword, sending the animal stumbling dead to the ground. Two of Shulgi’s red banners went down with it, entangled with the beast.

Another half dozen or so arrows rained down on the Sumerian king’s position. One man took a shaft in the side, but no other missiles found a target. Shaking his head, Shulgi climbed to his feet. The first thing he saw was Kapturu, the leader of the Tanukhs, wheeling his horse around and kicking it hard, away from the edge of the battle front that had come too near for Kapturu’s liking. Other Tanukhs followed their clan leader’s example.

“King Shulgi is dead! The king is dead!”

Some fool had seen Shulgi fall, and given voice to the lie. Others took up the cry at the sight of the king’s riderless horse. He knew he had to stop the panic from spreading.

“Sumerians! To me! To me!”

Except for those surrounding him, Shulgi’s shout went unheard, almost lost in the clamor of the conflict. Men shouted at each other, horses neighed and screamed, and the clash of bronze sword rang on both wooden shields and naked blades.

He tried to drag his sword from its scabbard, but the blade resisted, the scabbard bent by the fall. Shulgi finally ripped it free and raised it up over his head. “To me! Rally to your king!” He trod over two bodies to reach the lone red standard and stood beside it. “Rally to your king!”

A few heads turned his way. Others picked up his words, and passed them on. Shulgi knew he needed to hold his position long enough to give his spearmen time to break the Akkadian ranks. Victory remained within his grasp.

H is shield held close to his eyes, Gatus stood behind his ranks of spearmen, watching the battle line ripple and waver as the bloody fighting continued. His left flank, anchored against the river, was holding fast, no doubt helped by the two of Yavtar’s fighting boats that Gatus could see. What should have been the weakest part of the line, the right flank, also stood firm, no doubt helped by the confusion that Hathor and Klexor’s men had brought to bear. Only at the center, facing the greatest concentration of Sumerian might, had the advance ground to a halt, and even as he stared, it started giving way.

Gatus turned his head. By now he’d expected the Sumerian cavalry to be on his back, but the grassy field, trampled down by his men, remained empty as far as he could see. The slingers must still be engaging the enemy horsemen.

Shouts from his infantry snapped his head around. His precious spearmen were being driven back, killed as they tried to hold the line. They had started out in ranks three or even four deep, but now he saw many gaps where only one or two ranks remained, struggling to resist the enormous mass of Sumerian infantry, many shouting the war cries of Larsa, only a dozen paces away. Gatus knew they couldn’t withstand so many for much longer.

“Mitrac! Alexar! Help hold the line!”

Without waiting for a reply, Gatus charged ahead, his two cursing bodyguards caught by surprise at the old man’s sudden burst of speed. Drawing his sword, Gatus ran straight toward the largest bulge in the line. He arrived just as three men went down, losing their footing against the pressure of the Sumerians. Sumerian shouts rose, as the enemy saw only a handful of archers before them.

With an oath, Gatus thrust himself into the breech. Despite his age, his muscles were fresh, unlike those of all the men fighting. “Akkad! Spearmen, hold! Hold the line!”

His shield knocked one man back, and he thrust his sword into the face of another. The ground had good footing here, and his guards crashed against the line on either side of their leader, all three using their swords and shouting their war cries.

Hacking and stabbing, the three men halted the advance, and Gatus managed to take a step forward before the Sumerians regained their footing.

The Sumerians, nipped and harried by the Akkadians all morning, with many of their own men killed in the initial charge, now saw empty space only a few paces ahead. The sight rallied their strength and they pushed forward. One of Gatus’s guards went down, struck in the head with a sword. Gatus redoubled his efforts, thrusting and hacking with his sword, and keeping his shoulder pressed against his shield.

Something burned his side, and he staggered back, shoved by the force of the spear that entered his body. His surviving bodyguard struck at the enemy spearman’s face, knocking the man down and ripping the spear’s point from Gatus’s side. Ignoring the pain, Gatus moved forward again, swinging his sword down on another enemy head. Then a crazed Sumerian shoved a shield against Gatus’s, and once again drove the Akkadian back. He slipped and fell, as the way opened up for the Sumerian spearmen to burst through the Akkadian line.

M itrac had arrived with one hundred archers. The enemy horsemen hadn’t appeared on the infantry’s flank yet, and he’d seen Gatus’s line bend and begin to break. Mitrac’s men gathered into two ranks, a dozen paces behind the center of the line. “First rank aim high, second rank low. Shoot!”