The swiftly moving horses moved into range.
“Loose!” Mitrac gave the command and let fly his own shaft, with just the slightest arch to reach the riders out in front. Thirteen arrows flew toward the onrushing horsemen, galloping as fast as they could, every rider hanging low over his horse’s neck. Well before the first arrows struck, a second flight flew off the bowstrings.
“Target the leaders!” Mitrac shouted the words with all his strength, to be heard over the din of the horses. He launched shaft after shaft at the enemy commander, loosing as fast as he could fit an arrow to the string. Not all his bowmen remembered. A few continued to shoot at the mass of riders, but enough arrows flew toward the enemy commanders, both riding on the far side of the valley, and keeping the moving mass of horses and men between themselves and the hilltop.
Nevertheless, even with at least ten arrows launched at them in the first volley, the two leaders rode through the humming shafts unscathed. Then Mitrac glimpsed an arrow striking the brown and white horse in the flank. The animal reared up, its cry of pain unheard over the thundering hooves, but Mitrac lost sight of his prime targets, now concealed by a mass of horses and men. Instead, he shot his arrows as fast as he could, aiming at the easiest target.
The first horsemen burst past the base of the hill. Mitrac swung his bow around and let a shaft fly. He saw one, then another horse go down, caught by the holes. Even through the din of battle, he heard the bones snapping and the animals’ cries of pain. Some of the following horses jumped the injured animals, others swerved past them, bumping and colliding in the narrow passage, neighing and snapping their teeth in their confusion.
Another horse went down, screaming in agony, its rider pitching forward to land directly in the path of the remaining riders, crushed to death in an instant. But most of the riders swept by, though his archers followed their movement and continued to shoot arrows as fast as they could.
In the excitement, Mitrac had almost forgotten about the enemy commanders. He didn’t recall seeing either of the two horses he’d marked ride past. Turning his gaze back up the valley, he saw five horsemen still remaining, obviously unwilling to chance the ride without the safety of numbers. One pulled a dismounted rider up behind him, and Mitrac saw the brown and white horse sprawled nearby. Once they’d recovered their leader, they took one look at the dead bodies littering the base of the hill. They turned away and galloped back up the valley.
“Archers!” Mitrac pointed with his bow at the retreating horsemen. A few arrows were launched after them. Mitrac loosed four shafts himself, and someone’s aim must have been good, for one of the riders took a shaft in the back and pitched off his mount before the rest moved out of range.
“Good shooting, men!” Mitrac shouted. He had separated at least one, possibly both of the enemy leaders from their men. That alone should slow them down, especially if they had to decide what to do next. Satisfied, Mitrac looked around. One of his men lay on his back, an arrow in his throat. Another cursed steadily, as two companions tried to remove a shaft that had penetrated his arm. Other than those two, the rest of his bowmen were unscathed.
The wounded horses still cried out in their fear and pain, a pitiful noise that concealed the cries of any wounded bandits. “Finish off the wounded. Then put those injured horses out of their misery!” he shouted. “And don’t forget to gather up your arrows!”
He had no idea if the bandits would return, but his men should be able to recover at least half the arrows they’d shot. The archers descended the hill and started killing the enemy wounded. A sword thrust in the neck finished them off. The horses were harder to kill and took longer to die, screaming like women under the clumsy sword strokes of the archers. Mitrac hated killing horses, and their cries only made it worse.
“Mitrac, here’s a horse for you.” One of his men led a horse to the foot of the hill.
Mitrac mounted the animal, and began counting the enemy dead. Back and forth he rode, guiding the skittish horse through the bloody grass littered with bodies. The task took longer than he expected, but at last Mitrac returned to the base of the hill. By then his men had captured two more horses, and waited there for him.
“How many?”
“Eighteen dead men, and twenty-three dead or captured horses. Good shooting, men.”
They cheered at the news, as well they should. Every archer had loosed at least ten arrows, some as many as fifteen, at the enemy cavalry. Mitrac did the calculation in his head. At least a hundred and twenty to a hundred and sixty arrows had been launched. With the loss of a single man, his archers had broken the strength of the enemy horsemen. Even if those who got through reached Eskkar’s forces, the surviving Sumerian horsemen would not be sufficient to overwhelm the Akkadians. And if the unhorsed enemy leader remained to the north, he faced a long and hard ride to rejoin his men.
The plan had worked, and Mitrac felt proud that he had suggested it. He might be the youngest of Eskkar’s commanders, but after this, no one would ever doubt either his courage or his tactics. And that alone made the night’s walk and the morning’s work worthwhile.
6
“What happened?” A stupid question, Razrek knew, as soon as the words left his lips, but his head felt as if a horse had stepped on it. For all he remembered, maybe one had. He found himself sitting on the ground, his back resting against a large rock. A rough edge pressed against his spine, and Razrek shifted to remove the source of the pain. The movement sent a throbbing through his head. He had trouble speaking, and knew his thoughts were sluggish.
“What happened! I’ll tell you what happened.” Mattaki mouthed an oath and spat on the ground. “They littered the ground with our dead and wounded. Your horse took a shaft and went wild. You lost control and he threw you. If we hadn’t stopped to pick you up, you’d probably be dead by now.”
Razrek digested his subcommander’s harsh words. He remembered riding toward the hill, as arrows struck all about him. After that, everything was hazy. He must have fallen hard. His shoulder hurt, too, he realized.
“Well, then, I suppose I owe you my life,” Razrek said. He looked around. “Where are the rest of the men?”
“On the other side of the valley, damn you!” Mattaki shouted, his face a hand’s length from that of his commander. “By the time we stopped to pick you up, the men had ridden past. We had to turn around and come back. There was no chance of getting through. I lost my horse trying to save your neck.”
For a moment Razrek stared at him, his face empty of emotion. Then he realized what his subcommander’s words meant. “We’re not with our men?”
“Yes… yes… yes,” Mattaki answered, “with at least a dozen archers between us and them. We’ll have to ride around now, which is what we should have done in the first place.”
Razrek sagged back, his head spinning again. He lifted a hand and gingerly touched the side of his head. A massive bruise met his fingers, but he didn’t feel any blood. No doubt he was lucky to be alive.
Without him leading them, his men would find some excuse not to attack Eskkar’s force. They’d lost men and horses. Some would be wounded. They wanted to hear his orders. Those reasons would be enough to stop them from moving farther south. Even worse, Razrek, Mattaki, and the two men with them would have to swing round the valley, a time-wasting trip, and then have to hope they could catch up with their men.
“Is it finally sinking in?” Mattaki said with a sneer. “Or is your head still addled?”
“Damn you to the pits, watch your mouth!” Razrek held out his arm and Mattaki pulled him to his feet. For a moment, he thought he would fall down, but then the dizziness passed, and he felt the strength returning to his limbs. A sharp pain accompanied every movement of his head. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we catch up with our men the better.”