Satisfied that he had learned all he could, Sargon thrust his knife into the dying man’s heart. With a gasp more of surprise than pain, the man collapsed on his back, his eyes going wide for a moment before death took him.
Sargon took no pleasure in the killing. But as leader of the warriors, he had to show strength before them. No enemy, no matter how badly wounded, could be allowed to live and possibly cause harm to the warriors or their plans. Sargon could have ordered one of his men to kill the prisoner, but that would have shown weakness.
Ignoring the body at his feet, Sargon turned to his men. “My father’s army still holds the Pass, and now has twice driven back the Elamites. Tomorrow we will strike their rear, and bring confusion to their ranks and fear into their hearts.”
A cheer went up from the warriors. Not a man had been lost in this fight, so quick and ruthless the action. Buoyed by their victory, the warriors were now ready for anything.
“Warriors! It is time to ride hard,” Sargon shouted. “Strip the bodies of everything useful, even their clothing, and bring up the extra horses. We may need them.”
Another cheer went up. In moments, the naked bodies of the dead had been dragged behind some rocks, and looted of their weapons and valuables. The extra horses were collected, and once again Sargon led the way deeper into the Dellen Pass.
As they rode, Den’rack and Garal exchanged glances. Both men smiled. Sargon was indeed learning how to fight, and how to command.
Chapter 38
By midafternoon of the next day, Sargon’s warriors were near exhaustion. Every man had pushed himself to the utmost. Even the horses looked spent, despite their frequent rests while their riders changed mounts. The last twenty miles of their ride had taken them over the hardest part of the Pass, and stretched both man and beast to their limits.
The ride gave Sargon a better appreciation of Modran’s dead messengers, caught by surprise after the arduous ride. They, too, had covered the rough ground with remarkable speed. But now the slope of the trail tended to be mostly down, and Sargon knew they had drawn close to Modran’s army.
“Sargon! A scout is returning.” Den’rack, riding at Sargon’s side, showed little effect from the punishing journey.
Sargon looked up to see a rider galloping toward them. Sargon halted the warriors, who bunched up around him, all eager to hear the news.
Pulling his horse to a stop, the man blurted out what he’d seen. The rear guard of Lord Modran’s army lay just over a mile ahead.
This time Sargon had to see for himself. He halted the warriors and ordered them to stay where they were. Then, with only Den’rack, Garal, and the scout, Sargon rode the final mile through the Dellen Pass. When the four reached the second scout, Sargon swung down from his mount, and the leaders covered the last fifty paces on foot.
The scout pointed to a sloping boulder, and they scrambled up the slippery stone until they reached the top. Flat on their stomachs, they peered down the trail at the back end of Lord Modran’s army.
A little over a quarter mile ahead, Sargon studied the rear guard of Modran’s troops. Not really soldiers, of course. These were the siege workers, the diggers and sappers, the carpenters who would construct ladders and shields, butchers and cooks to feed everyone, and livery men to help with the pack animals.
At least a hundred tents, crammed into every part of the Pass, provided shelter. Only a thin ribbon of the trail, enough for two or three horses side by side, remained open in the center of the Pass.
“Where are the horses?” Garal sounded surprised. “Wouldn’t they keep the horses at the rear?”
“They’ll be up ahead,” Sargon said. “The cavalry would want their mounts as close as possible, in case they needed them. There must be some just around that curve in the trail. These are only the laborers that Modran will use in the siege of Akkad. Most are unarmed.”
“With so many tents,” Den’rack said, “there may be two or three hundred men between us and the herds.”
“Probably more,” Sargon said. His experience with Akkad’s soldiers and their support units gave him a better grasp of the Elamite’s numbers. “But I don’t see any fighting men, only a few guards. Modran isn’t expecting any threats from his rear.”
Sargon kept studying the enemy position. The men camped before him were clearly not fighters. No doubt most of them would panic at the first sight of a sword.
“When we ride into them, the noise will alert the guards up ahead who are protecting the horses,” Garal said. “They’ll be waiting for us.”
Still thinking through the problem, Sargon didn’t reply at first. “Perhaps. But there may be a way to make this work for us.”
He sketched out his idea, one simple but daring enough to appeal to the warriors. Both Den’rack and Garal offered suggestions and improvements. Soon a workable plan emerged, risky, but one that would satisfy every warrior’s craving for blood and honor.
“Then it’s settled,” Sargon said, hoping that his idea wouldn’t get them all killed. “We’ll have to prepare the warriors with care. Each one will have his task.”
“They’ll be ready,” Den’rack said. “This will give everyone more fight than they imagined.”
“Then as soon as night falls, we go.” Sargon turned to Garal. “If this works, you’ll have a better story to tell around the campfire than Chinua.”
Garal chuckled. “As long as I’m alive to tell it.”
The evening shadows arrived early in the mountainous terrain. The siege workers ended their day even before the shadows began to lengthen. They had little energy, receiving a smaller ration of food than the rest of Modran’s fighters. Water was even scarcer, and many of them had little more than a mouthful since the morning.
The few guards posted were lax as well. Tasked with keeping anyone from trying to desert and head back through the Pass toward Zanbil, they kept their eyes on the trail to the west. But they turned quickly enough when they heard the sound of hoof beats echoing off the cliff walls.
Two riders appeared, pushing their horses hard up the slight incline. The leader of the guards, a heavyset man almost too old to fight, moved to the center of the trail, and raised his hand.
The two messengers, wearing the tunics and emblems of Modran’s personal staff, pulled their lathered horses to a stop.
“What news from Zanbil do you bring?” The guard got right to the point. “Is food and water on the way?”
“Yes, and we’ve urgent news for Lord Modran,” Sargon answered. “There’s a company of horsemen right behind us carrying supplies and weapons. Clear this rabble from the trail.”
The guard stared at Sargon for a moment. He didn’t recognize the messengers, but that meant nothing. Modran’s staff was large enough for two armies. He turned his eyes to the second man. “How far have you ridden?”
“From Zanbil and beyond,” Garal snapped. “My commander ordered you to clear the way. The reinforcements, a hundred men and a hundred pack animals, are right behind us.”
Both messengers spoke the main Elamite language. The guard didn’t recognize their accent, but with so many men from different lands fighting in Modran’s army, that was to be expected.
The sounds of horses approaching grew louder. Down the slope came the reinforcements, moving at an easy canter and riding in a column of twos, most of them leading extra pack horses.
“Let’s ride,” Sargon said. “Lord Modran is waiting for us.”
The guard and his men shrank aside, and Sargon and Garal put their horses to a canter. With the main troop almost upon them, the guard ordered his men to clear a path. They knew none of Modran’s cavalry would think twice about trampling some lazy laborer or overly officious guard.
Then the horses trotted past, guided by grim looking fighters. The leader of the guards gave them the briefest glance as they rode by his post. The next guard post, at the rear of the horse herds, would take the reinforcements through.