Fashod grunted as he pulled Sargon to safety. “Help Jennat. He’s injured. Start up the hill when I tell you. Garal and I will send a few shafts down the slope to cover you.”
Another arrow struck the boulder and glanced off. Fashod already had Jennat’s bow in hand. Sargon moved beside the wounded man. An arrow protruded from his left leg.
“Damn the luck,” the warrior said. “It stings like a scorpion bite.”
“Go!” Fashod gave the order at the same time he leaned out from the boulder and loosed a shaft. “Hurry!”
Sargon had time for a brief glance upward. Their first breathless dash had carried them more than half way. Shoving his bloody sword into its scabbard, Sargon grasped Jennat by the waist. They started moving. The first few steps were the hardest, but they soon found a slant that led toward the crest.
They crawled on hands and knees, clinging to the rocky outcrops to keep from sliding back down, Sargon pushing and shoving to help Jennat along, both gasping for breath. Behind them, Sargon heard Fashod and Garal working their bows, shooting shafts as fast as they could fit them to the string.
Shouts of confusion still erupted from the base of the hill. Sargon guessed that every one of Garal’s shafts had found a mark. Shooting uphill at night was more difficult than shooting downwards. In moments the enemy archers, who had rushed to the base of the hill, scattered, moving away into the darkness.
Sargon heard scrambling sounds below him. Fashod and Garal had started climbing, too. Either they had exhausted their supply of arrows, or they decided they couldn’t remain any longer. Sargon and Jennat kept moving, ignoring everything behind them. A stone rattled down the hill. He looked up and saw the blur of faces above him, only a few paces away.
Hands reached out of the darkness and grabbed Jennat from Sargon’s grasp. Another powerful grip seized Sargon’s left wrist and yanked him upward. The slope grew steeper for the last few steps, and Sargon, already gulping air into his lungs as fast as he could, thanked the gods for the help.
The twang of bowstrings sounded over his head. Subutai’s warriors were sending shafts down into the darkness. Suddenly the slope leveled. Sargon stumbled forward and fell flat on the ground. All he could think of was that he was still alive, and he’d reached the top. When his heart finally slowed, he pushed himself to his knees.
“Come. We’re still within range of their arrows.”
Sargon didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter. Rising to his feet, he found his legs trembling, either from weakness or fear. He stumbled after his guide, following him away from danger. He smelled and heard horses, and saw a small campfire burning up ahead. Sargon slipped to the ground a few steps from the fire, still struggling to catch his breath. This time he stayed where he had fallen.
No one paid him any attention. Warriors moved about, and Sargon saw some gathering near the fire. He heard Fashod’s voice answering questions in rapid bursts of words that Sargon, in his exhausted condition, couldn’t understand. Even so, he knew what Fashod must be saying. Telling Subutai or the other leaders that they had reached the Alur Meriki.
Gazing down at his hands, Sargon saw they still shook, either from the mad scramble up the hill, or because he had just killed his first man. Blood mixed with dirt covered his right arm. He tried to brush it off, but the touch of the slippery fluid made him want to retch.
He could still feel the way the sharp blade slid effortlessly inside the body of the guard, could hear the small gasp of pain and surprise as the Carchemishi soldier felt the shock of the cold bronze. Sargon wondered if the man had time to realize he’d taken a death blow.
Everything had happened so quickly. In all his practice sessions with Garal or even those back in Akkad, there was always time to prepare, to plan the attack, even a chance to recover from a mistake. Sargon hadn’t had time either to think or be afraid. And now, after the fight had ended, he didn’t know what he felt.
Someone moved in front of him, blocking the faint light of the fire. Wearily, he lifted his head, and saw Tashanella standing there. The colorful dress she’d worn in the camp the last night he’d seen her was gone, replaced by the patched and faded garment she’d worn when he first noticed her.
“Are you wounded?” She dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands went to his shoulders, but gently, as if afraid she might hurt him.
He had to think for a moment. Looking down, he saw that part of his tunic was splattered with blood. “No, I’m fine. It’s not my blood. I. . I killed a man.” His hand fumbled for his sword, and he realized that the hilt and top of the scabbard were slippery with blood. He shivered at the touch. Sargon had not had time to clean the blade before shoving it into its scabbard.
“I should clean my sword.” His voice sounded odd in his ears, as if someone else had spoken.
Sargon knew no warrior should ever return an unclean blade to its scabbard. When the blood dried, it would grip the blade and make it difficult to draw.
“Yes, of course.” Despite her youth, Tashanella recognized the signs of a man struggling to comprehend what had just befallen him, his mind shocked into near paralysis. “Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”
Without waiting for acceptance, Tashanella reached down and unbuckled his belt. She withdrew the weapon from his waist. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He nodded, but she had already turned and disappeared into the darkness. Sargon glanced around. Even in the middle of the night, the hilltop thronged with people. Every member of the Ur Nammu clan, more than a thousand men, women, and children, filled the hilltop.
Their horses, too, almost six hundred, took up whatever space remained. In such crowded and unsanitary conditions, not many would be able to sleep.
Despite the press of people, no one paid Sargon the slightest interest. He might as well have stayed with the Alur Meriki. Again his thoughts returned to the dead man at the bottom of the hill, and he wondered if Eskkar had felt any such feelings of remorse when he killed his first man.
That brought up another question. Just how many men had his father killed by his own hand? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? Sargon doubted Eskkar had any idea of the number.
A few months ago, in the safety of Akkad’s ale houses, Sargon and his friends had scoffed at the thought of fighting or killing. Those were tasks for ignorant men who made war their trade, not princes of the city with gold enough to hire as many guards as they needed.
Safe and secure behind their wealth and power, Sargon and his friends had sipped their wine and laughed at men like his father, Hathor, and the others. Barbarians like the Ur Nammu were beneath their contempt. Sargon remembered the certainty with which he’d dismissed such ideas.
Instead, Eskkar had turned his son’s world upside down. Now Sargon needed to fight to stay alive. Once again he wished he had paid more attention to all the things his father and his military advisors had sought to teach Sargon. Garal’s teachings had conditioned him and given him the basic skills. Nonetheless, Sargon knew he’d been lucky to kill his man, more experienced and with a powerful arm.
Sargon thought of the stroke that had brushed past his stomach and shivered. Only his quickness had saved his life. And now, though Sargon and the others had succeeded in reaching their goal, this hilltop might still be the place of his death.
“Here, drink this.” Tashanella slipped to the ground beside him, and handed him a cup.
Lost in thought, Sargon hadn’t noticed her return. He had to use both hands to take the cup from her, and despite his efforts, his hands shook. The smell of raw wine reached his nostrils, and he took a sip of the liquid. It felt rough to his mouth, but he drank it down. “I didn’t think there would be any wine in the camp.”