Glancing back up the slope, Sargon saw only an empty stretch of down-trodden grass, as the last of the Ur Nammu waded into the attack. With lances, bows, and swords, they finished off those who had survived the warriors’ charge.
Sargon, breathing heavily, let the sword’s point drop to the ground. The battle still raged around the plateau, but all the Carchemishi at the base of the hill were dead or dying.
Garal, with blood streaked across his face and chest, moved beside Sargon. “We need to find horses.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the battle noise.
Sargon saw plenty of animals milling about, others rearing up and lashing out with their forelegs at anything that moved, man or beast, friend or enemy. The animals, mad with fright and the scent of blood, all searched for a way to escape the carnage.
One look at the wild beasts, and Sargon decided he would wait a moment longer for them to calm down before he attempted to mount one. He glanced again at his friend. Sargon couldn’t tell if Garal were injured.
“Are you wounded?”
Garal shook his head. “No, but a horse’s hoof ripped across my chest.” The young warrior took a deep breath. “Let’s get some horses. This isn’t over yet.”
The young warrior dashed toward the ditch, where a handful of horses snapped and bit at each other, lashing out with their hooves at anything and everything that moved. By the time Sargon could join him, Garal had seized one halter rope, and somehow managed to grab the mane of a second animal. The man had an uncanny skill with horses.
“Mount up,” Garal shouted. “I can’t hold them much longer.”
Gritting his teeth, Sargon took two strides and leapt directly onto the back of the nearest animal, then locked his legs around the animal’s chest while he leaned forward and snatched up the dangling halter rope. To his surprise, the animal quieted down, grateful to have someone in control. Hearing more shouting, Sargon turned to his right, wheeling his new mount around.
From atop the horse, the chaos of the battlefield stunned Sargon’s eyes. Dead and dying animals and men covered the ground so densely that he doubted he could get a horse through it. Blood colored everything a bright red, some wounds still spurting into the air. The blood stink rasped into Sargon’s throat with every breath.
Any surviving Carchemishi had vanished, either driven off along the south side of the hill by the Alur Meriki, or pushed into the ditch and slaughtered by the Ur Nammu.
Thirty paces away, Sargon saw Subutai, still on his horse, blood streaming down his right arm. The clan leader surveyed the carnage. Then his horse rose up, front hooves flailing the air, as Subutai wheeled the animal around, searching the battleground. His eyes picked out Chinua. The subcommander and his men had just finished off a knot of Carchemishi.
“Chinua! Take your men. Capture their pack animals. Hurry.”
Garal also heard the command. He kicked his horse toward the spot where Chinua, waving his sword in the air, was regrouping his men. Swearing under his breath, Sargon followed after him, clutching his bloody sword in his hand.
Sargon had seen the invader’s baggage train yesterday, easily visible from the top of the plateau and about a mile away. Tents, wagons, and pack animals waited there, no doubt filled with all the loot taken in the last two hundred miles, plus whatever supplies of food and grain the invaders had collected along the way.
Sargon realized there would be no rest or time to think about the men he’d killed. In moments, Chinua was leading about forty riders at a full gallop across the plain, headed for the enemy baggage.
Many of Carchemishi survivors, fleeing for their lives, ran toward the same destination. Most had thrown away their weapons in their haste. Glancing over their shoulders as they ran, they looked in terror at the riders bearing down on them. The once haughty invaders, now stumbling and falling, parted like a river split in two by a pointed rock, trying to get out of the path of the relentless warriors.
Sargon, riding at Garal’s side, watched the slaughter. The Ur Nammu spread out and cut down the helpless men, swords rising and falling again and again. The warriors used their horses to advantage, and Sargon saw many Carchemishi knocked to the ground or trampled underfoot.
Once again Sargon glimpsed the looks of panic and fear on the enemy’s faces as the fast moving warriors cut them down from behind, using lance and bow and sword. Some warriors even dismounted, to kill those hugging the ground and pleading for their lives.
Dead bodies littered a wide swath of ground behind the ruthless warriors. Sargon knew there would be no mercy. The invaders would have slaughtered the entire Ur Nammu clan, after brutalizing the women and children. Now they would endure the same fate.
Looking ahead, Sargon glimpsed another stream of men and women abandoning the baggage train. A few rode, seizing any pack horse that might carry them away from the destruction of the army. Others just ran as hard as they could, scattering in all directions, away from the death that galloped toward them. Chinua’s riders, in hot pursuit, swept past the first of the wagons, tents, and rope corrals.
“Garal! Stop!” Sargon bellowed as loud as he could. He pulled back hard on the halter, letting the other warriors race past him. He had no interest in chasing across the plain after the fleeing survivors.
The baggage train, however, held food and supplies, as well as loot. When Chinua’s men returned from the killing, Sargon knew their first instinct would be to burn everything to the ground. Better that it be saved for use by the Ur Nammu and Alur Meriki.
With obvious reluctance, Garal slowed his horse, then swung it around and returned to where Sargon had dismounted, in front of the largest tent. Two big carts, small wagons, really, stood on both sides of the gently billowing cloth, pushed back and forth by the morning breeze. The tent was huge, easily twice the size of Subutai’s. The location, somewhat apart from the others, seemed too well placed for anyone less than the commander of the baggage train.
Sargon used his bloody sword to push aside the flap and peer within. He glimpsed blankets covering the floor, and cushions scattered about. Behind him Garal slid down from his horse. “What’s this place?”
“A commander’s quarters.” Ducking his head, Sargon started in.
Suddenly Garal’s arm snapped out and grabbed Sargon’s tunic, jerking him backwards. The blade of a sword missed Sargon’s face by a handbreadth. Sargon’s training took over. Before the weapon could strike again, Sargon thrust out his own sword. The blade dug into something, and he heard a yelp of pain from within.
Garal’s iron grip jerked Sargon aside, and the warrior moved forward, his sword at the ready. Tearing open the flap with his left hand, Garal lunged hard, but the blade met no resistance. Sargon saw a man stumbling away from the opening and toward the far side of the tent, a sword still clutched in his hand. Blood streamed down the man’s right forearm, where Sargon’s off-balance blade had landed.
Garal pushed his way inside, jerking his head from side to side, to make sure there were no other threats. Sargon followed his friend, sword at the ready. From the far corner of the tent, a woman screamed in fright at the sight of the two fighters, blood splattered over their bodies, naked blades in their hands. Another woman joined in, their high pitched screams even louder in the closed confines of the tent. Sargon had never heard two women make so much noise.
The wounded man, his back to the far wall of the tent, turned to face them. He knew he couldn’t cut through the wall of the tent before Sargon and Garal fell on him. Big and powerful, he would have had a chance against Garal in an even fight, but the deep cut on his arm had weakened him.