“One of their horse herds must have stampeded,” Alexar said. “Must have run right through the camp.”
“One herd wouldn’t make that much noise,” Muta said. “That sounded like a lot of horses.”
“Whatever it was, I don’t think they’re going to try again tonight,” Eskkar said, thinking out loud. “They’ll need time to recover their mounts, and then position themselves once again for the attack.”
“If there were more than one herd stampeding, then they may postpone another assault,” Drakis said.
Eskkar thought about that. A big stampede would normally require a day or two to recover the horses. But here in the Pass, the beasts had no place to scatter. Nor had they proved very useful. “No, I think they’ll still come tomorrow. Modran hasn’t any time to waste chasing after loose horses. He’s running low on food and water, and by now Sargon and the warriors will have cut the Elamite supply line. Either Modran turns back, or he throws every man against us tomorrow.”
“The warriors have had enough time to reach Zanbil,” Alexar said. “Do you think Sargon had anything to do with the stampede?”
“On most days,” Eskkar said, “I’d say only a fool would ride seventy miles into the Dellen Pass and challenge Modran’s army. But some of Sargon’s warrior friends are eager for glory. Remember Chinua leading the charge at the Battle of Isin? They might have decided to try and steal some horses.”
“Well, whatever happened,” Alexar said, “it’s not likely to help us tomorrow.”
That seemed true enough, Eskkar decided. “Tell the men to stand down, and get some more rest. Tomorrow promises to be a long day.”
Garal had waited until Den’rack and Sargon gave the order to turn back. He, too, wheeled his horse about, but moved to the side, slowing his mount until the other warriors had put their horses to the gallop. As soon as the last of the Sargon’s riders passed Garal by, he turned again and headed west once more, leaning low against the neck of his horse as he raced back up the Pass.
Racing through the darkness as fast as he could, Garal managed to catch up to the rear of the stampeding horses just as the Elamite guards and soldiers rushed into the gap, trying to stop the panicked animals. All the same, plenty of horses ran about in every direction, and the disorganized efforts of the Elamites kept the frightened mounts moving forward. The rush of the herd to the west continued, though most of the horses slowed their pace to a canter.
Clinging to his horse, Garal urged the animals onward. He kept in the middle of the trail. Whenever the horses near him began to slow down, he jabbed the point of his knife into the nearest flank. That resulted in the wounded animal neighing in pain and breaking into another gallop, which helped keep all of them moving.
The horses, now spread out over the width of the Pass, continued their movement to the west and through the main force of the enemy. Fortunately for Garal, the ground now sloped downward, making it easier for the horses to keep on the move.
The galloping horses had kicked the occasional Elamite campfires into ashes. None of the milling soldiers thought to look closely at the running horses, nor did they expect to see one man hunched over, his silhouette barely visible in the darkness. One mile passed, and still no one had sounded an alarm. Even those who did notice him never imagined that an enemy would be so bold as to ride through their camp.
Another half mile passed under his horse’s hooves, and Garal had not yet reached the leading edge of the Elamites. The number of horses still running had diminished, and he guessed that now only a few hundred continued their rush through the Pass. Regardless, the soldiers moving about fixed all their efforts on getting the mounts under control, and as far as Garal could tell, none of them had seen him as he slipped by.
At last Garal saw blackness ahead, the empty space that marked the end of the Elamite’s position. Two small campfires still burned, and he picked out a line of enemy sentries. Nevertheless, most of them were still focused on the horses, while the rest kept their eyes to the front, in case the Akkadians should try to attack.
Urging on a handful of horses, Garal rode right between two guards. If they saw him, they failed to give the alarm, and no arrows hissed by his head or into his back.
Once in the open space, Garal sat upright on his horse. About twenty mounts still trotted along, turning aside now that they had reached an open space of relative calm. He guided his mount alongside a weary horse and grabbed its dangling halter. With two horses, he might survive should he lose his own.
Ahead, he glimpsed three more campfires, strung out in a line across the width of the Pass, that had to mark Eskkar’s battle line. Now all Garal had to worry about was getting an arrow in his chest from one of the Akkadians.
He took one last glance over his shoulder, and decided that he’d ridden far enough from the Elamite front line. Taking a deep breath, he called out to the unseen sentries. “Akkadians! Akkadians! I bring a message from Sargon of Akkad!”
Slowing his tired horses to a walk, he repeated the words again and again. A shadow flitted across his path, but Garal didn’t slow. The Akkadians would have their own scouts out in the empty space between the lines. Now he had to hope one of these didn’t put a shaft into him.
“I bring a message from Sargon of Akkad!” The line of campfires drew closer. Now he was less than a hundred and fifty paces away.
“Halt! Stay where you are!”
Garal pulled back on his halter, and raised both hands high in the air. “I am Garal of the Ur Nammu, and I carry a message to King Eskkar from his son, Sargon of Akkad.”
Voices whispered in the night, but Garal couldn’t make out the words. Then another figure rose up right before him, and a large hand grasped the halter rope. “Keep your hands away from your weapons.”
Garal did as the man ordered. After a moment, his horse started forward again, this time responding to the tugging from the man leading it. Garal noticed movement behind him, and glimpsed another shadowy figure guiding the second horse. He knew that armed men watched his every move, ready to kill him.
Ahead, Garal saw a line of spearmen, the bronze tips of their upright weapons glinting even in the near darkness. A few of the spears lowered just enough to point at his chest. Then the line parted, and Garal and his extra horse passed through the ranks and into the Akkadian camp.
A brawny arm reached up and pulled Garal from his horse. Other hands seized his weapons, casting them onto the ground. A man on either side grasped his arms, and they half led, half dragged their prisoner away from the front line.
“Who are you?”
The man spoke even before Garal stopped moving. A soldier with a torch appeared, and waved it in front of Garal’s face.
“I am Garal, of the Ur Nammu, son of Chinua. I come with a message from Sargon of Akkad, for King Eskkar.”
“Bind his hands,” a voice ordered.
The men holding him jerked his arms down and behind his back, but before they could fasten the rope, another voice ordered them to stop.
“I know this one,” Drakis said, peering into Garal’s face. “I’ve seen him in the Ur Nammu camp. Let him go.”
Garal took in a deep breath and let it out with relief. Death had come closer to him in the last hundred paces of his journey than in his wild passage through the Elamites.
“I know you, too, Commander Drakis. I am glad to see you are still alive.”
Drakis laughed. “Well, tomorrow might change that. But follow me. I’m sure the Captain will want to talk to you.”
A moment passed before Garal realized that ‘Captain’ was another title for King Eskkar. With a most un-warrior like sigh of satisfaction, Garal followed Drakis and his men through the darkness.
“And you managed to slip through the entire Elamite army?” Eskkar still couldn’t quite believe what the young warrior had accomplished, even after hearing the story for the second time.