Conflict of Empires (2010) (57 page)

“Get the boat in the middle of the river, away from the bank.”

The man at the steering oar followed the current, and at this point in the river, that brought them closer to the left bank, scarcely fifty paces away. “Why … what’s the problem?”

Daro gripped Scria’s shoulder and squeezed. “Just do it. Now!” He pushed the man away and reached down to grasp his own bow. With the ease of years of practice, he strung the weapon, then slung the quiver over his shoulder, letting it hang down to his waist on his left side.

The boat had already turned into a curve of the river. Scria’s shouts to his steersman brought the bow around, and the vessel moved sluggishly toward midstream, struggling against the current. Daro rested his foot on the prow, to get a better look.

A flight of arrows burst from the brush along the river’s left bank. They hummed through the air, striking the boat, the crew, and the water on either side. One shaft grazed Daro’s arm, and two struck the boat on the left side.

“Get down!” Daro shouted the order, but those who survived the first flight were already ducking as low as possible. An archer lay sprawled beside the mast, and one of Scria’s three crewmen had taken two shafts and fallen overboard.

The boatmaster – his voice rising to a hysterical shout – had an arrow protruding from his arm, as he crawled along the bottom of the vessel. Daro loosed a shaft at the shore, now filled with men emerging from the bushes and splashing into the shallow water, some still launching shafts. Fortunately, the crewman steering the boat had survived, and he kept the vessel moving toward the center of the river.

A quick glance at their numbers told Daro all he needed to know. At least twenty archers had attacked them, maybe more. He dropped his bow and picked up an oar. “Everyone row!” A few arrows launched toward the riverbank weren’t going to accomplish anything.

Moving to the right side of the vessel, he took shelter behind some sacks of grain and began pulling as hard as he could, thrusting the paddle deep into the river and dragging it through the water. His surviving bowman, Iseo, did the same, crouching down as low as he could and working the dead crewman’s oar. The boat moved farther from the left
bank, slowly passed through the center of the river, and glided closer to the opposite shore. Arrows continued to fall on the ship and splash into the water, but by now Scria’s boat had moved well past the point of the attack.

“We should get to the opposite shore!” Scria’s right hand clutched his bloody left arm. His voice had lost none of its panic.

Daro lifted his head and let his eyes scan the right bank. He saw a party of horsemen – at least twenty – following the course of the river and matching the pace of the boat. Many of them had bows in their hands. They rode easily, as if they didn’t care if the boat slipped away from them. A third party of perhaps a dozen riders trotted into view on the left bank, going down river as well. The boat was trapped between the two forces.

“Turn the boat around,” Daro shouted. He pointed to the horsemen on the right bank. “We have to go back up river.”

Scria’s eyes widened. “We can’t go back!” he screamed. “We’re too heavy to pull upstream!”

The boat captain had started with three crewmen. One had died, another lay on his back, an arrow in his shoulder. Only luck had saved the most important crewman, the one steering the boat. If he’d taken an arrow, the ship might have swung broadside and swamped. But Daro knew they couldn’t continue south, and both sides of the river appeared to be crawling with who knew how many mounted men.

“Keep the boat in the center of the river! Scria, start dumping the cargo. Iseo, help him. Get the body over the side, too. Hurry!”

Scria, crouched on his knees, remained motionless. “We can’t dump the cargo. It’s worth at least thirty –”

“It’s worth nothing to you if you’re dead! Iseo! If he doesn’t start helping, throw him overboard.”

Daro reached down and lifted the first sack, lifted it onto the gunwale, then pushed it over the side. Soon the boat was rocking back and forth, threatening to capsize at any moment, as the three of them tossed sacks, bales, and clay pitchers overboard.

He paused to look at the shore. The horsemen still kept pace with the boat’s progress. The enemy didn’t bother wasting arrows. They seemed satisfied as long as the boat went south. That meant more enemy would be waiting ahead, and likely with some way to force the boat to shore, perhaps a vessel of their own filled with armed men.

Daro scrambled back to the rear of the boat. The steersman, his face
white with fear, clenched the steering oar with a grip that made the bones in his hand stand out.

“I’ll take the oar!” Daro snapped. “You help Scria dump the cargo. Make sure we don’t dump what we need for ballast.” An empty boat would capsize at the least movement.

In a few more moments, the craft rode higher in the water, with almost all of the cargo over the side.

“Iseo, we’re turning upstream. Start rowing, all of you. Steersman, as soon as we come about, get that sail up. Then stay low, and row for all you’re worth.”

He pushed hard on the steering oar, turning the boat first toward the right bank, then swinging it back across the center of the river and turning it upstream. As soon as he got the boat headed north, the men on shore took notice. Once again arrows flew through the air, splashing into the water, thudding into the sides of the boat, and a few striking inside the vessel.

The frightened steersman raised the sail faster than he’d ever done in his life. The soft breeze didn’t help much, but it enabled the boat to keep headway against the river’s current. As soon as Daro had the boat centered in the river and moving north, he ordered Scria to take the steering oar. With his wounded arm, the boatmaster would be of more use guiding his boat than trying to row.

Daro scooped up Scria’s oar and began stroking. His powerful arms, strengthened from years of archery, helped push the boat up the river. Soon they retraced their way and reached the point of the first attack. As he watched, a dozen horsemen moved into sight, and guided their horses down the slope toward the river’s edge. All of them carried bows.

Daro swore, dropped his oar and collected his bow. The enemy would ride into the stream as far as they could, which would bring them into killing range. They’d rake the little boat, and riddle everyone with arrows. “Iseo! Keep rowing!”

But the horsemen weren’t close enough for that yet. Daro stood, aimed, and launched his first arrow. He’d aimed for the nearest rider, but the shaft struck the lead horse in the shoulder. The animal went mad with pain, rearing up and twisting its head to tear at the arrow with its teeth. The rider slipped from the animal’s back and went into the water with a mighty splash. The wounded animal kicked out with its hind legs, and the next horse panicked as well.

Aim for the horses, you fool. Remember Eskkar’s advice.
Daro shot arrow after arrow, as fast as he could nock them to the string. The slippery slope leading to the water didn’t provide the riders much room, forcing the horsemen to bunch together. With the animals all taking fright, either from their own wounds or hearing the cries of the other horses, they dug in their hooves and refused to enter the water.

A few of the enemy gave up the effort and dismounted, trying to find their footing in the slippery mud and continue shooting arrows at the boat, but by then the craft had swung by the curve and moved out toward the deeper center channel. The moment the curve blocked the enemy from sight, Daro dropped the bow and picked up his oar. “Stay in the center! And row, damn you, row!”

He kept Iseo and the steersman rowing until well after dark, matching them stroke for stroke, an agonizing effort that sapped every bit of strength he possessed. By then everyone was exhausted, but the evening breeze had strengthened, and allowed the craft to keep moving slowly upstream, despite the tiring rowers. Daro let each man take a turn resting, always keeping two men pulling the oars. At least they could quench their thirst easily enough, scooping water from the river with their burning hands to refresh themselves.

The moon sent a pale glimmer of light down the water, providing just enough light for the steersman to keep the boat in the center of the river. They dragged the oars through the water in silence, everyone struggling against the pain, until even Daro thought his heart might burst. As midnight approached, the boat slid around yet another curve in the river.

“Daro! The way station’s up ahead!” Scria’s shout echoed his relief.

“Keep your voice down, you fool.”

Daro lifted his eyes and saw the single rickety jetty protruding from the east bank. It looked peaceful enough, with one boat tied up at the little dock and another drawn up on the shore. No fires burned, but any crews pausing here on their way south would be asleep by now. He made up his mind. Daro knew he’d never get to Akkad with just the men onboard the boat. If the breeze died, which likely would happen at any moment, certainly well before dawn, they didn’t have the strength to keep the craft moving northward.

He looked down and saw the gleam of his sword at his feet, then took a deep breath. “Akkad! Akkad!”

The shout floated out over the water and brought a challenge from the
soldier on night watch, a shadowy figure who sprang to his feet, surprised to hear a boat approaching at this time of night.

“There’s a boat on the river! Everyone get up! Get up!” At the sentry’s loud command, other shapes appeared. Men sat up, fumbling for their weapons and trying to shake the sleep from their eyes. Another voice called out. “Who’s there?”

“Daro, leader of one hundred from Akkad.” He let himself relax. The guard’s voice held the accent of someone who’d lived in Akkad all his life. “Bring us in to shore, Scria.”

When the boat ground against the sandy bank, Daro had to concentrate to keep his footing. He felt lightheaded and weak as a newborn lamb. Hands reached out from the darkness and dragged the boat up the sandy bank and out of the river’s grasp.

“Commander, what are you doing going upriver at night?”

“Enemy horsemen between here and Kanesh. The outpost may have been taken.” By the time Daro finished explaining, everyone was on their feet, the soldiers belting weapons around their waists and the rivermen getting their belongings back into their boats.

“I’ll take all the soldiers with me in Scria’s boat. Six men on each side, we should be able to make good time going upriver.”

“There won’t be anyone to guard the ships,” a boatmaster Daro didn’t recognize protested from the darkness.

“Doesn’t matter. The enemy will be here by morning, maybe sooner. Sink one of the ships, dump the cargo of the other, and double up your crews. Take the one ship and row for all your worth back to Akkad.”

Daro climbed back into the boat, shouting his words over his shoulder. He settled in at the steersman’s station. With twelve men pulling oars, he’d be back in Akkad by noon, if the wind stayed favorable. He didn’t care what happened to the traders. As soon as the last of his men settled in, Daro gave the order. “Push off and start pulling on those oars. I want to be halfway to Akkad by dawn.”

Adarnar outpost on the Sippar river, at sunset …

E
nkidu made his rounds of the outpost three times each day – just after dawn, at midday, and when the sun touched the western horizon. He took his time, talking to the guards, making sure none had gotten drunk, forgot their weapons or failed to take their posts. After four months under his command, such occurrences seldom happened. The nearly thirty soldiers and equal number of craftsmen and their families knew Enkidu and his ways by now.

Like every fort on the edge of Akkad’s lands, the group of soldiers assigned to the Adarnar outpost contained the usual number of fools and dullards, slackers and the sharp witted. These provided a daily trial to the more professional soldiers. Enkidu had worked hard training all of them with equal parts firm discipline and helpful encouragement, and while some of his men might not be good enough to strut up and down on top of Akkad’s walls, they had all become proficient enough for patrolling the border. They now took as much pride in their duties as their commander, and he in turn felt satisfied with every man under his authority.

As always, pride in their skills proved helpful, as Adarnar possessed few amenities either for its men or its horses. Compared to Kanesh, which lay a good two days’ march to the west, Adarnar was scarcely large enough to hold the barracks and corrals for the twenty-two horses. The small fortified settlement sat on the northern edge of the Sippar river, its single dock running along the water’s edge just wide enough to berth three ships.

The boats that sailed along the Sippar, as well as the occasional caravan following its banks, were Adarnar’s main reason for existence. All trade and commerce throughout the land had to be protected from bandits, if Akkad were to continue to grow stronger. Since taking command of the post, Enkidu had not lost a single sack of trade goods, which was more than most of the other outposts could say.