A-tuku trampled another soldier before Eskkar, knowing that a rider on a slow moving horse made for an easy target, flung himself down. Dropping his long sword, he snatched the shorter blade from its scabbard. Grasping his shield, he lunged forward, thrusting and stabbing at the crowded mass of Immortals.
A spear slipped past Eskkar’s shield and struck him in the chest, but the bronze breastplate deflected the killing blow. Knocking the shaft aside with his shield, Eskkar thrust twice at the Immortal wielding it. The second stroke caught the man in the mouth and ripped through the back of his neck, sending the choking man to the earth.
Then two Immortals hurled themselves at Eskkar. They recognized the armor of an Akkadian commander. Jerking away from one stroke, Eskkar used his shield to deflect the second man’s thrust, then struck with his sword at the first man. The three continued to engage, each one stumbling over the dead and wounded, trying to strike and kill.
Enraged at the thought of Modran getting away, Eskkar reverted to his ancestry. Another Alur Meriki war cry burst from his lips, and he swung his sword with all his strength. One Immortal went down, and the second now faced the full fury of Eskkar’s sword arm. Trying to take a step back, the second Immortal slipped on the bloody ground. Before he could recover, Eskkar drove his sword through the man’s throat.
Behind Eskkar, Chandra, Myandro, and others from the Hawk Clan widened the gaps their Captain created. Fighting like wild men, they pushed past Eskkar and through the last of the Immortals. The bellowing war cries of the Akkadians now carried the sounds of victory.
The Elamite cavalry, after watching Lord Modran knocked from his horse and General Martiya wounded, were taken aback by the ferocious charge of the bloodthirsty Akkadians. They saw the Elamite center in ruins, the Immortals being slaughtered, and most of their leaders down. Many had already turned aside.
Too many arrows and stones had struck at the horsemen. Most realized that death awaited them if they continued the fight, even if they managed to sway the outcome of the battle. With frantic shouts to those behind, they turned their horses around and kicked them into motion.
Three of Modran’s surviving guards, stopping only long enough to snatch up the stunned and wounded Lord Modran, followed the cavalry. Kicking their horses to the gallop, they scattered their own men and thus sealed the fate of the engagement. They rode hunched over, hoping an arrow didn’t take them in the back.
Eskkar cursed in his rage, his path now blocked by the fleeing Immortals. He’d fought his way within twenty paces of Modran, but the enemy commander, surrounded by a handful of his men, had managed to get away.
All the same, Eskkar knew that once the Elamite cavalry started rearward, they had lost the battle. Even though they still outnumbered their attackers, the disorganized and panicked enemy turned, almost as one man, and fled, stepping on their own wounded in their panic to get to the rear. Many had seen General Martiya and Lord Modran go down, and decided the time had arrived to save themselves as best they could.
Only the Immortals remained. More than half of them had already died, but the rest, now trapped with their backs against the cliff, refused to surrender. Ranks of Akkadian archers poured shaft after shaft into what remained of the Elamite position, often from distances as close as four or five paces, while Alexar and Drakis kept driving the Akkadian spearmen against them, keeping them at bay and pinned against the cliff.
Their shields gone, and the rest of the army fleeing, the Immortals abandoned any thoughts of holding their ground. With a rush, they tried to retreat, but hundreds of arrows continued to tear into their ranks.
Drakis finally halted his exhausted infantry, and let Mitrac’s bowmen finish off the Immortals. By the time the archers had emptied the remainder of their second quiver, less than a hundred Immortals remained alive. These had dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, begging for mercy.
Eskkar, leaning on his sword and breathing hard, watched the last of the fighting end. The Elamites fled down the slope, tossing swords and shields aside to run all the faster. As the battle fury left him, Eskkar found he could scarcely stand.
Though he had not fought as long as most of his men, the incredible effort he expended had nearly proved too much for him. The battlefield appeared blurry to his eyes, and his heart pounded in his chest, no matter how much air he drew into his lungs.
For a moment, Eskkar thought he would collapse to the earth, exhausted. But he managed to stay on his feet, though he lurched from side to side. The long years had finally caught up with him. He knew he’d grown too old for this kind of fighting and killing.
Stumbling over the battlefield, he found A-tuku wandering around, a bloody gash on his right flank. His favorite horse had survived the battle as well. Using the last of his strength, Eskkar swung himself onto the horse’s back, paused to catch his breath once again, then rode back up into the Pass.
The only force that remained at the near original battle line was Shappa’s slingers, who had bravely filled the gap until the tide of battle had swung completely in Akkad’s favor. Once Eskkar arrived at what originally had been the center of the Akkadian position, he turned A-tuku around and let his eyes sweep the battleground.
Everywhere he looked, he saw the dead and dying. Others, too, had fought themselves to exhaustion, and many dropped to their knees while they tried to catch their breath. The overpowering smell of blood and human waste made it hard to breathe, and filled the Dellen Pass from wall to wall. Cries of the wounded, many begging for water, now echoed off the walls.
That sound, he knew, would gradually diminish as men died, and the victors finished off the vanquished. Nonetheless it was time for the Akkadians to tend to their own injured.
The third battle of the Dellen Pass had ended. And this time, the enemy had broken, caught by surprise by the unexpected horse stampede, then ripped apart by the savage countercharge of Alexar and Drakis’s spearmen. The fearless slingers had held the center long enough. Finally the deadly arrows of Mitrac’s bowmen had finished off the last few still fighting.
Eskkar watched the enemy survivors, running as hard as they could, until the last of them disappeared around the curve in the Pass. He cared nothing for them. They would run until they collapsed. When they recovered, they would run again, terrified of the Akkadian pursuit.
But Eskkar had no intention of chasing after them. Without food, many more Elamite soldiers would die before they reached Zanbil, and he doubted the survivors would find much succor there. Better to let them go. He didn’t intend to waste even a single life of his soldiers in pursuit.
Someone shouted his name, and Eskkar saw Drakis waving his sword at him. For once after a battle, Drakis didn’t look ready to die from his wounds. Aside from a few scratches, he had managed to avoid any serious injury. Behind him walked four spearmen, cursing their bad luck at not being allowed to go looting. They carried a wounded Elamite by his arms and legs.
The men carelessly dropped the injured man at Eskkar’s feet, as he gazed down from his horse. Blood had seeped the length of the Elamite’s left arm and across the front of his tunic. An Akkadian shaft had ripped completely through the fleshy part of his shoulder. Aside from the loss of blood, the wound didn’t appear that serious, and the man might actually survive.
“Who’s this?” Eskkar’s voice sounded harsh in his ears. One glance at the wounded man’s garments and Eskkar knew his men had captured one of the senior Elamite commanders. “What’s your name?”
Martiya might not understand the language, but he recognized the King of Akkad. “General Martiya.”