Their slow approach lulled the Sumerians. Men sank back to the ground, apparently relieved that they would not have to fight or run again. Hathor’s eye caught sight of four horses. If these men still had mounts, they must belong to the Sumerian commanders, else they would have vanished long ago.
“Bowmen,” Hathor said, “I don’t want those horses or their riders to get away. Make sure they don’t.”
Two men moved out in front of the Sumerians. One was tall and lean, and dressed in a blue tunic that even at a distance stood out from the rest. He stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword, while the other waved Hathor forward, impatience showing in his every movement.
Hathor and his men drew within a hundred and fifty paces before the man’s eyes widened in surprise. Close enough, Hathor decided. He needed some space to get the horses up to speed.
“Attack!” Hathor kicked his horse into a run and tightened his legs around the animal’s body. In moments, the powerful animal raced over the ground, hooves pounding, ears flat, as excited as its rider. Hathor’s sword flashed from its sheath, and he raised it up over his head and swung it around. “Attack! Akkad! Attack!”
As they’d been trained, the Akkadians shouted their war cries at the top of their lungs as they urged their horses forward.
“Akkad! Eskkar!”
The words struck fear into the Sumerians. Those standing turned and ran, already two steps ahead of those who had to first scramble to their feet. Hathor directed his horse straight at the man in the blue tunic, who turned and fled toward the horses waiting nearby. In a few long strides, the shoulder of Hathor’s horse crashed into the man’s back, knocking him to the ground. Then the Akkadians, still screaming their war cries, charged into the fleeing men.
Swords rose and fell, blood spurted into the air. Men screamed in agony, struck by sharp blades, knocked aside by the horses, or just trampled underfoot. Again and again swords descended, each strike eliciting a cry of pain. A few Sumerians tried to fight, but a tired and thirsty man on foot had little chance against a sword swung down from a horse. Even those Sumerians untouched by any weapon were affected, the ageold fear of men on foot caught from behind by mounted warriors.
In moments the Akkadians had swept through the scattering enemy, leaving a trail of bloody bodies. Hathor yanked hard on the halter, turned his horse around, then kicked it into a run once again. He rode straight toward the enemy horses. Tied to a bush, they had panicked at all the noise and the scent of blood, struggling wildly against the ropes that held them. One broke free and bolted back toward the north. A Sumerian struggled to untie another animal when Hathor struck him down. An Akkadian arrow slew another who flung himself across a horse and tried to escape.
“You!” Hathor shouted at the man who’d fired the killing arrow. “Guard these horses! Let no one near them!”
The Egyptian scanned the battleground. Bodies littered the earth, many of them shrieking in pain from their wounds. His horsemen had dispersed all over the area, already reduced to chasing down individuals trying to flee. Hathor ignored all the killing. His men knew what to do. They would finish off every man they could, until their horses could go no further.
Dismounting, he tied his mount’s halter to the same bush that had restrained the Sumerian horses. He had time to give the animal a friendly pat on its shoulder before he walked back to the edge of the camp, toward the man in the blue tunic. He lay facedown, right where he had fallen, and to Hathor’s amazement, the man hadn’t been trampled by any of the following horses. A blood-spattered rock remained beneath the man’s head. Hathor knelt beside him, and rolled him over onto his back.
The man groaned at Hathor’s less than gentle touch. “What happened … who…?”
Hathor still had his bloody sword in his hand. He put the tip of the blade against the man’s throat and pushed a little, just enough to draw blood. “What’s your name?”
Fear widened the man’s eyes. He gasped in terror, and lifted his hands as if to move the sword aside.
Hathor pushed the sword a bit deeper. “I won’t ask you again.”
“Eridu! King Eridu of Sumer! Don’t kill me!”
“Well, damn all the demons below!” Hathor said, so surprised that he withdrew the tip of the sword from Eridu’s neck. “King Eskkar wished me good hunting, but I doubt he expected me to catch you in my net.” He lowered his sword, then reached down and using his free hand dragged Eridu to his feet. “You might prove useful, if you do as you’re told and don’t force me to kill you.”
Eridu might have been as tall as Hathor, but he lacked both the bulk and his captor’s powerful muscles. The king’s shoulders sagged in defeat.
Hathor shoved him along until they returned to where he left the horses. A handful of his men were busy looting the bodies. “Tie this one up, hands behind his back. Use his sandal straps and make sure they’re tight. We don’t want King Eridu to escape, do we?” Hathor shoved Eridu to the ground, where he lay gasping as the breath fled his body. “And his feet, too.”
While the soldier trussed up the prisoner, Hathor took another glance around. His men were returning, most leading horses that no longer had the strength to carry their riders. A few even herded prisoners along. Hathor frowned at that. He preferred not to bother with captured soldiers, better to just kill them and get them out of the way, but he knew Eskkar would want to talk to them, to learn why they fought, and what they believed in.
Such ideas reminded him of Lady Trella’s influence on her husband. Hathor had the greatest respect for Lady Trella. She was, after all, the one who convinced her husband to spare Hathor’s life, putting her will against Eskkar’s rage and desire for vengeance, not to mention the demands of every inhabitant of the city of Akkad.
Trella, transformed in a moment from slave to queen, offered her enemy his life, even a chance to return to Egypt if that’s what he wanted. Instead, Hathor had sworn an oath on his honor as a warrior to follow Eskkar wherever he led, and Hathor had included Trella in that promise. In the days that followed, when he was greeted with scorn and contempt, if not outright hatred by everyone in the city, only Trella’s influence and firm acceptance of the Egyptian gradually convinced the people of Akkad to separate Hathor from the atrocities of the Egyptian Korthac.
Since that time, Hathor had discovered a measure of happiness serving Akkad’s leaders. Never before had such feelings filled his life, and he welcomed the opportunity to repay Eskkar and Trella for what they’d given him. Destroying their enemies would help pay back the debt that could never truly be redeemed.
And Hathor had proven himself a skilled leader of horsemen, second only to Eskkar himself. In the last year, he’d worked long and hard with the men he now commanded, turning farmers and villagers into a skilled force of cavalry, a name he recalled from his days in Egypt. The Akkadian cavalry numbered less than fifty men in all, and Eskkar had brought only thirty-two with him on this expedition to the southern border. The rest remained in the city, patrolling the nearby farms. Hathor’s riders had demonstrated their worth today. They’d smashed the remains of the Sumerians and defeated them for the second time in one morning. And he’d captured King Eridu.
His grinning and cheering men returned, congratulating each other and their leader. Every warrior had a story to tell, either a brave act that showed his worth, or something foolish the fleeing Sumerians had done. Even the normally grave Hathor couldn’t resist a smile at some of the stories he heard.
“Enough celebrating for now,” he shouted, at last putting a stop to all the chattering. “Count the Sumerian dead, and finish searching the bodies. Kill any of the enemy wounded that can’t walk. Then gather all the weapons and anything else of value. The prisoners can carry it all back to Eskkar’s camp. There’s no water here, so we need to keep moving.”