Fifty paces behind Sargon, the old men, young boys, and the women had assembled on foot. They, too, would die with a weapon in their hands.
The battle, however, would begin with Fashod. He had command of fifty men, and they would charge down the hill at the spot where Sargon and his companions had ascended. The rest of Fashod’s men were spread between Subutai and Chinua. All the horses not being ridden would be stampeded down the slope first. The ditch and stakes would kill most of them, but Subutai hoped they could dislodge some of the defenders.
Like everyone else preparing for the attack, Sargon knew the attempt was doomed. The Carchemishi were no fools and had prepared well. The ditch would stop the horses and the first wave of Ur Nammu.
The enemy archers would turn the base of the hill into a killing ground. Less than three hundred men would face more than a thousand. Subutai and most of his men would be killed in the first wave.
The Carchemishi would not be taken by surprise. They expected an attack, and pre-dawn would be the most likely time for the Ur Nammu to try something. The invaders always had at least half their men ready for any such endeavor, and the remaining soldiers took their rest with their weapons close at hand. The fighting would be brutal, but the ditch would slow the Ur Nammu, giving time for the enemy bowmen to rush to their positions and cut the warriors apart.
It didn’t matter. The last of the water had gone to the women and children yesterday morning, with only a mouthful for each of the men, and none for the horses for the rest of the day. That meant they must attack today. By midday lack of water would have so weakened the Ur Nammu fighters and their horses that they would be practically helpless.
Gripping his lance, Sargon sat on his horse and waited.
A glance at the moon told Sargon that dawn approached. Already the blackness of the eastern sky had lessened. He wondered just how much of the dawn he would live to see. At least today would prove his father wrong. No matter how hard and long Sargon had trained and practiced the skills of war, he was going to end up just as dead as Subutai and the others.
At the other end of the hilltop, Fashod strung his bow. He would strike the first blow in the coming battle. By attacking down the hill, he hoped to convince the Carchemishi that the expected breakout would take place here.
If Fashod could cause enough of the invaders to rush to his position, it might help Subutai break through. Of course, the better Fashod attracted the enemy’s attention, the sooner he and his men would be overwhelmed and killed.
Fashod didn’t worry about that. He’d faced death before. Now all that remained was a warrior’s duty to his Sarum, and in that Fashod did not intend to fail.
He took one last look around. His men stood ready. Darkness still covered the land, but a glance toward the eastern sky told him it was time to go. He leaned over the crest. Since Fashod and his little group had scaled the hill at this point, the enemy had stationed more soldiers here.
“Fashod! What is that?” One of his men moved beside Fashod. In the faint moonlight, he could just make out the man’s arm, extended and pointing to the north.
It took a moment before Fashod spotted it. Up in the hills, a tiny glow had appeared, deep in one of the ridges. Fashod stared for a moment, to make sure it was real. It had to be a very small fire, little more than a handful of sticks, but at night even the smallest of flames could be seen over long distances.
And positioned high on a cleft deep between two ridges, the fire would be difficult to see from the base of the hill. In a few more moments, the early light of dawn would overpower the feeble flames. Even if the Carchemishi could or had seen it, it would mean little to them, perhaps just a small party camping in the hills.
Fashod, however, understood its meaning. He turned to his subcommander. “Keep ten men here, to guard the ascent. The rest of you, come with me!”
Without waiting for acknowledgement, he burst into a run, heading for the other side of the hill, where Subutai impatiently awaited the sounds of Fashod’s charge down the hill. But that attack must not happen, not now. He had to tell Subutai. The Alur Meriki were coming.
Fashod had never run so hard in his life, racing across the top of the hill, dodging the occasional woman or wandering horse, weaving his way across the summit until he reached Subutai’s side.
“The Alur Meriki are coming!” Fashod had to pause to take a gulp of air. “They must be close. I saw the signal fire. We must wait for their attack.”
Two miles away and across the plain from the Ur Nammu refuge, Bekka led his horse up the side of a sheltering gully. He found Unegen there, waiting.
“Is this the place?” Bekka growled the words. He didn’t want to reveal how tired he felt. His feet burned from the long walk, and his legs ached with every step.
“Yes, Sarum,” Unegen said. “We’ve reached the plain.”
Bekka took a deep breath, then swung himself onto his horse. He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but he would not show weakness in front of his men, not even Unegen.
Instead Bekka glanced up at the moon, now sinking toward the horizon, before turning his gaze on the eastern sky. Dawn approached, and he thanked the gods for letting him reach his destination. He could not have walked much farther.
“Lead the way.” Bekka settled himself on his horse, and made sure his sword slid easily in its scabbard. Already he felt stronger. His mount was weary, too, but Bekka knew it had just enough stamina left for one final charge.
He followed Unegen, both men prodding their horses to a fast walk. It would take some time for all the warriors to climb out of the gully, mount their horses, ready their weapons, and take their positions.
Everyone had rested during the early part of the night, but just before midnight, the Alur Meriki chief had led his warriors, on foot and guiding his horse, the final nine or ten miles needed to reach this place. He’d wanted to favor his horses as much as he could, so that they would have something in reserve and could make the final approach at a full gallop.
His tired warriors had done what many would have considered impossible. They covered a vast distance in only a few days, and now would descend on an unsuspecting enemy. Hopefully the element of surprise, if Bekka could keep it, would be enough to make up for the superior numbers of the Carchemishi.
Bekka glanced behind him. As his fighters emerged from the ravine, they formed up, three or four abreast. Bekka wanted every man well clear of the ridge before they got too close. Only flat plain remained ahead, thin grass and good hard ground that would do little to impede men or horses.
He heard a horse scrambling its way toward him. Bekka frowned at the noise, until Den’rack pulled up alongside his Sarum.
“The signal fire is burning, Chief Bekka.”
Bekka twisted around and looked up at the hills, but he couldn’t see anything. He stared for a moment. There might be a glow against the upper ridges, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Let’s hope the Ur Nammu see it. And that the invaders don’t.” Not that it mattered any longer. The Alur Meriki were committed. They needed fresh horses, and the only place to get them lay ahead.
The slow pace grated on Bekka’s nerves. He wanted to move faster, but he resisted the urge. They’d arrived just in time, and could afford a few more moments to prepare. Finally Suijan, who’d been at the column’s rear, trotted over to join them. “The last of the warriors have cleared the ridge, Sarum.”
In the darkness, Bekka smiled at the formal title. It was the first time Suijan had used it. “Good. Take your position on the right. I’ll lead the center. You know what to do.”
Each of the chiefs had his assigned role. Bekka had worked out the plan last night around the campfire, when they’d finally stopped to rest the horses. Unegen had sketched a rough map in the dirt, and identified the landmarks. Every chief and leader of twenty knew his assignment.