“Form a line on me. Hurry, before they turn. Hurry!”
It took the attackers time to slow their horses and turn them around, expecting to ride back and deliver the killing blow. But the very speed of their charge had carried them another sixty or seventy paces past the shattered column. Before the first man could goad his horse back toward the Akkadians for a second attack, an arrow reached out and struck him in the chest, then another, and another.
“Hold,” Bantor shouted, as the survivors rushed together, lining up to face their attackers. “Draw… aim,” he waited until every man had drawn his shaft to his ear. “Loose!” As the bandits finished turning their horses and began their second charge, twenty arrows flew into their ranks.
Man and beast went down, both screaming in pain, and the second charge slowed. Less than three seconds later, another wave of arrows struck, and now some of the bandits had no thought but to get away from these deadly archers. The brave few men who kept riding toward the archers died, killed in the third wave, delivered at less than twenty paces, the shafts striking with enough force at that distance to stop even a horse in its tracks.
Horses and men flopped on the ground between the two forces, and the scattered dead and dying prevented a quick assault on the line of bowmen. Again Bantor directed the men’s fire, and another wave of arrows landed in the midst of a group trying to rally for another attack.
The attackers turned away, urging their horses to either side of the bowmen. Still within range, more horses and men died before the last of the bandits galloped to safety.
Bantor had seen broken men flee before, and guessed that these attackers wouldn’t be back, not for some time at least. He cursed at their backs, and flung his sword down into the earth, before sinking to his knees.
The whole fight had lasted but moments from beginning to end, but more than half of Bantor’s men had died, and his horses scattered over the countryside.
When Klexor reached his side, he found his leader wincing in pain and muttering one word over and over. “Ariamus!”
It took more than half a mile before Ariamus and his subcommanders managed to halt and regroup their men. Some of them had bolted for Akkad, others just raced in any direction, anxious to get away from the great arrows that buzzed like bees about their heads, striking down their companions. They circled about, trying to regroup, and Ariamus finally brought them together.
“Dismount,” he shouted. “Get down off those horses.”
Some refused, still frightened of the Akkadian bowmen. Most kept glancing back toward the place of ambush.
“They’ve no horses to follow us, you fools,” he bellowed. “What are you, a bunch of cowards to run from half your number? Nebibi, Rihat, bring the men together. Kill anyone who disobeys.”
Ariamus took a quick count of his riders, then slapped his hand upon his leg so hard his horse jumped in surprise. Ariamus had struck Bantor’s line with over sixty men, losing only one or two to arrows before they clashed, and Ariamus doubted if he’d lost a man as they rode through them. One more charge would have finished the job.
Now Ariamus counted less than forty men, and these looked so shaken up he doubted he could drive them back for another attack. He had lost an equal number of horses, but had more than recouped that loss, since almost all of Bantor’s horses had trotted after his own animals.
He stopped cursing at his men, dismounted, and squatted down on the ground to think things over, Nebibi and Rihat joining him. The rest of the men began to breathe a little easier, relaxing enough to lick their wounds or to tell their companions how bravely they had fought.
“We killed most of them,” Rihat offered. “And we’ve got almost all of their horses.”
“We’re not here to steal horses, you fool! You should…” Ariamus took a deep breath. It wouldn’t help to shout at his underling. And the man was right, they had killed most of Bantor’s men. “How many do you think were left alive?”
Rihat closed his eyes, the better to think about what he had seen.
“Twenty, maybe less. Not more than that.”
Ariamus had made the same guess. So he’d killed more than half of Bantor’s men. Perhaps some of the survivors had taken wounds. Damn Bantor. Ariamus had planned well, but he hadn’t expected to find himself in this situation, with only half a victory. What would he tell Korthac?
How could Ariamus explain that he’d left twenty Akkadians alive, when he had over twice that number still fit to fight?
“Exactly how many men did we lose, Rihat?”
Rihat shrugged, then got up and began a detailed count. It took some time before he came back and sat down on the grass. “We’ve forty-one men left, not counting us. Two are wounded, but not too badly. They can still ride.”
Only two men wounded, but more than twenty dead or missing. The numbers didn’t improve his mood. Those arrows had struck with such force, and at close range, the shafts struck hard enough to knock a man off his mount. He doubted any of his men who’d lost their horses or gotten wounded survived. The Akkadians’ arrows would have finished any survivors by now. Ariamus had lost about as many men as he had killed.
Not that he cared about his losses. With Korthac’s gold, they could always recruit more men.
More important, Bantor’s men had been soldiers, men trained to fight, and not so easy to replace. The horses couldn’t be easily restocked either.
Ariamus had to scour the western lands to get the mounts he had acquired.
On foot, the Akkadians wouldn’t be much of a threat. Ariamus remembered seeing Bantor go down under hooves, and didn’t recall seeing him get up. He recalled Bantor as a slow-witted fool anyway, and once again Ariamus wondered what Eskkar had seen in the man. Nevertheless, Eskkar’s stupidity was Ariamus’s good fortune.
He’d broken Bantor’s men, and left them on foot. Their bows would be useless against the walls of Akkad, and from those walls Korthac and his men would have their own bows. No, the situation looked less bleak the more he thought about it. At least, it would have to sound that way when he reported to Korthac. Ariamus had promised the man he would destroy all the Akkadians, not just half of them. He started thinking about what he would say to the new ruler of Akkad.
Even more important, Ariamus didn’t dare lose any more men. Without a sizable force reporting to him, Takany would overshadow him, and Ariamus, as leader of the horsemen, would lose whatever influence he had with Korthac. No, Ariamus decided, he’d already lost more men than he’d expected. Any more would be disastrous, even if he survived another attack himself.
“We must go back and finish them, Ariamus,” Nebibi interrupted Ariamus’s thoughts. “Korthac said we should…”
“Korthac isn’t here, Nebibi.” Ariamus cut him off. “Do you want to charge again against those bowmen?”
Nebibi’s face told him the answer. The Egyptian had plenty of courage, but they both knew what kind of men they led.
“We’ve no bows, Nebibi,” Ariamus began, lowering his voice and speaking now in the language of Egypt. “Even if we could drive this lot back for another attack… even if we succeed, we’ll lose too many of our own doing it. And remember, those archers will be targeting anyone urging the men to the attack.”
Nebibi opened his mouth, then closed it. The man might fear Korthac’s wrath, but Nebibi had never seen arrows such as those, knocking horses to their knees.
“We’ve done what we set out to do, Nebibi. We’ve smashed Bantor’s force. The few that survived, that escaped, let’s say less than a dozen, are masterless men now, and helpless. Korthac will be pleased when he receives our report.”
Nebibi thought it over, no doubt trying to balance the danger of shad-ing the truth to Korthac compared to facing Bantor’s men again. At last he nodded uneasily. “Yes, Ariamus, only a few escaped us. Less than a dozen.