“The moment we start up the slope,” Jennat said, “they’ll hear us. We’ll be easy targets.”
“All the more reason to go through them,” Fashod whispered. “If they’re all dead, they won’t be able to stop us. It will take some time before more soldiers can reach this place.”
Fashod raised his head and surveyed the enemy post once again. When he ducked down, he unslung the lance from his shoulder.
“Remember, if anyone is wounded and can’t make the climb, he’ll have to fend for himself. Garal and Jennat, target your shafts at the guards starting from the left. Sargon and I will use our lances on the two on the right. Wait for us to throw. As soon as the way is clear, start climbing.”
Sargon’s heart beat faster, and wondered if the others could hear it. His mouth had gone dry again, and he had to force himself to swallow. In moments he would be fighting for his life. Nor could he expect help from any of the others.
Every man knew what needed to be done — at least one of them had to get to the top of the hill and give Subutai the message that the Alur Meriki were coming. If Sargon faltered or fell wounded, he would be left behind.
Fashod moved closer to Sargon, his mouth only a hand’s breath from Sargon’s ear. “Take the one on the rightmost side, Sargon,” Fashod ordered. “If your lance doesn’t bring him down, keep moving forward and use your sword. They won’t be expecting an attack from behind. Just get past him and start up the slope. Don’t wait for anyone. I’ll tell you when to throw. Understand?”
Sargon had a handful of questions, but found himself nodding agreement. His mouth felt dry, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.
“The moment we throw our lances,” Fashod whispered, this time to Garal and Jennat, “loose your arrows, and move forward. Keep shooting until they’re all dead.” Fashod grasped Sargon by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Sargon loosened the cord that held the lance over his shoulder. He grasped the weapon in his right hand, making sure he held it firmly by the grip. His hand started to sweat, and he rubbed it hard against his tunic, grateful that no one could see the gesture in the dark. He wondered if the others noticed his fear.
Fashod took the lead, moving forward and creeping low toward the sentries. The others fanned out on his left side. Sargon remembered Garal’s teachings, and he kept his eyes on the ground before him. Now was not the time to trip and sprawl on his face, alerting half the enemy camp. Sargon recalled another reason to keep his gaze down. At night the whites of a man’s eyes could be seen at a distance.
The eight sentries were scattered about, most sitting on the ground, a few looking up the slope. One lay stretched out, taking his ease. Two or three talked among themselves, no doubt trying to stay awake. They obviously felt safe enough. No fighters from the hilltop could come down without making plenty of noise.
The distance between Sargon and his target closed. Fifty paces, then forty. Easy distance for the bows, but still too long for a flung lance. Sargon couldn’t believe they hadn’t been seen or heard yet. Thirty paces. By now he could see the one he had to kill. The unsuspecting man sat on a rock, facing the slope, and talking with his companion.
Fashod slowed his pace even more. Sargon’s heart pounded in his chest, so loud that he felt certain the guards could hear it. Twenty paces, then fifteen. His right hand, again damp with sweat, gripped the lance. Ten paces. The guards surely heard their approach by now. Then Fashod rose from his crouch and Sargon knew the time had come. Fashod drew back his arm. Sargon, too, prepared to throw.
“Look out!”
The warning boomed out, before Fashod could hurl the lance. The alarm came from Sargon’s right and echoed off the slope. A soldier, or perhaps a watch commander making his rounds, had practically strolled up on Sargon and his friends.
Fashod never hesitated. Ignoring the man who gave the alarm, Fashod threw the lance and charged forward. Bowstrings twanged. Sargon, too, hurled his lance at his original target, glimpsing it as it flew through the night. As he rushed forward, he saw that neither his lance nor Fashod’s had struck a killing blow.
Both targets reacted swiftly. Fashod’s man had risen and turned in the same moment. The lance tore through the man’s left arm, wrenching a cry from his lips. Sargon’s throw missed completely, either from a poor aim or because the man had whirled around.
The night erupted in shouts, drowned out by the frightening sounds of the steppes warriors war cries as the Ur Nammu voiced their war cries. Fashod hurtled across the distance, and his sword struck down the wounded man before he could draw a weapon.
Sargon, two steps behind, ripped his sword from its scabbard and flung himself at his foe.
The guard Sargon had missed had taken a step toward Fashod, but now he turned, sword in hand, to meet Sargon’s attack. Sargon, swinging the sword with all his strength, felt the impact of the stroke up his arm as bronze met bronze, his first experience with such a shock.
The impact forced his foe back a half step. Sargon never stopped his forward motion, lowering his shoulder and driving it into the man’s chest. The guard, despite his greater bulk, went sprawling, his sword flailing.
Sargon turned to move beside Fashod, hotly engaged with another warrior. The clash of bronze nearly masked the sound of a sandal crunching on the loose stones. The soldier who’d given the alarm had charged forward to join the fray. He’d closed the distance in a few heart beats, and now he lunged forward, his sword aimed at Sargon’s chest.
Only Sargon’s quickness saved him from the well aimed stroke. He twisted aside from the ferocious thrust that brushed past his ribs. This attacker knew his trade. He kept moving forward and his shoulder slammed into Sargon, knocking him back and almost off his feet.
Sargon knew better than to rise up. Instead he crouched low, and dodged an overhand swing. He feinted with a sweeping cut. Then, still close to the ground, he lunged forward, driving the sword’s tip beneath the man’s attempt to parry, and up into his belly.
Sargon felt his blade bite deep into the man, who cried out in as much surprise as pain. His sword fell from his fingers and clanked against the rocky ground. Hot blood spurted along Sargon’s arm, as he jerked the blade back. His grip nearly came loose, and he had to tighten his fist and wrench the blade free.
“Run!” Fashod had finished his man, and now grabbed Sargon by the shoulder and shoved him toward the slope.
Stumbling into a run, Sargon raced for the hill, following Fashod’s steps. They raced across the forty paces or so to reach the slope. Dimly he heard someone scrambling and clawing up the slope, so he knew that at least one of his companions had also broken through. Then Sargon reached the base of the plateau and started up.
An arrow dug into the earth beside Sargon’s hand, as he gripped a rock to help his ascent. Another clattered off a stone. The sword in his right hand hampered his ascent, but he didn’t dare take the time to sheath it, nor did he intend to drop it.
More shafts hummed through the darkness, burying themselves into the cliff or snapping against the rock. Meanwhile the tumult from the now fully aroused main camp mixed with the shouts and curses of the men below.
Sargon heard another arrow hiss over his head. He kept scrambling up the steep hill, slipping and sliding back down every few steps. His shoulders twitched with anticipation, as if his body could sense the oncoming missile that would end Sargon’s life.
The sentries, however, had yet to recover from their surprise. Only two had survived Fashod’s assault, though others had rushed over to join them. These new arrivals had to string their bows, and now they shot their arrows uphill and into the darkness, aiming at the dim shadows already climbing out of range.
Ignoring the chaos below, Sargon kept moving. Another arrow struck the earth a pace above him. A large boulder, half buried in the hill, provided some shelter. He ducked behind it, to discover that he was the last to arrive.