Empire Rising (3 page)
Authors: Sam Barone
Overnight,
the…
174
I tell you, Trella, this is wrong. Asurak deserves his…
186
Twenty miles east of the Euphrates, and more than a…
195
Trella greeted Nicar and Corio when the
two nobles entered…
203
Korthac didn’t bring any of his usual bodyguards
to
the…
213
Ten days after the feast of Ishtar, Korthac stepped from…
225
Five more days went by without event, and already a…
234
Ariamus had hidden his sixty-three horsemen
in a tiny fold…
258
Once the moon rose, they had enough light to make…
273
Eskkar had scarcely noticed the passing
of time, as days…
288
Eskkar strode out of the house and into
the
market,…
310
Korthac woke a few hours after he’d finished
taking
his…
327
As Eskkar and his men slipped through the
darkness
and…
332
Hail, Akkad!” Yavtar’s voice carried easily over
the black water,…
340
Ariamus woke before dawn, a lifetime habit
that
had
served…
352
As Grond raced up the stairs, he heard the clash…
366
Hathor woke with a start, the unexpected but
always
familiar…
378
Drakis watched as Enkidu and his men
used the stakes…
389
Hathor and his Egyptians had finally gained
control of the…
406
Bantor and ten men galloped through the main
gate,
heading…
415
Eskkar spent the first part of the morning
making
sure…
423
Hathor woke to pain, pain that possessed
every part of…
433
Nine days later, Yavtar once again guided his
boat
toward…
447
——
3157 B.C.E., at the eastern edge of the great southern desert in Mesopotamia . . .
Head sagging, his face inches above the heated rubble of rock-hard dirt, Korthac struggled against the escarpment. The long ascent had scraped the skin from his hands and knees, and now every contact with the sun-seared stones burned his fl esh, as he struggled another step up the slope.
Close your eyes, just for a moment.
The inner voices grew more insistent, seductive, as another wave of dizziness swept over him.
Rest! Let another lead the way.
Clenching his teeth, he crawled on, fighting against the voices as much as the steep hillside and the pitiless sun. Korthac could not show weakness in front of his men. The desert might kill him, but it would not defeat him.
He’d find water at the top, and live. Clinging to the thought, he dragged himself upward.
Water.
Most of all he fought against the need for water, forced himself to ignore his swollen tongue and parched throat.
Water.
Korthac pictured streams of clear, bubbling water nestled under shady sycamore and willow trees. He forced the image from his thoughts and concentrated on wrenching himself up another arm’s length. The vision and the voices kept returning. He must find water, or the desert would prevail over him, claim him and all his followers. That could not be.
The top of the ridge beckoned, just a few paces above. He moved with 2
SAM BARONE
caution, making sure his trembling legs did not betray him. Twice in the last hour Korthac heard the death screams of men who had fallen back to the desert floor. If he lost his grip, started to slide back down, he didn’t know if he had the strength to stop his fall.
His thirst drove him on. Fortune had saved him and his minions time and again in the last two months, but even the gods couldn’t keep a man alive in the desert with no water. He refused to believe his destiny meant for him to die like this, hunted and herded into this barren wasteland like some wretched slave, driven mad by thirst before the death gods claimed his body.
Last night, a few hours past sunset, Korthac and his men reached the base of the plateau they’d first glimpsed three days ago. The remnants of his once-mighty army fell on their faces and slept until dawn. When they awoke this morning, two men could not get to their feet.
Korthac ignored their pleading. “Kill them.” He’d given the same order almost every morning for the last two weeks. Those closest drew their knives and thrust them deep into the chests of the helpless men. The rest needed no further urging. They crowded around the two dying men and cut their victims to pieces, every man shoving and pushing his way to seize a piece of moist flesh, valued as much for its thirst-quenching blood as for its nourishment. When the gory ritual ended, only the splintered bones, their marrow sucked dry, remained on the red-soaked sand. Even the skulls were cracked and the brains scooped out. Afterward, fewer than eighty men started the climb up the sheer and treacherous slope.
Korthac ate with the rest, on his knees and pushing the bloody flesh into his mouth as fast as he could. The act no longer shocked him or any of his men. The strong fed upon the weak to gain sustenance for another day.
But even a fresh-killed body didn’t hold enough water to keep so many men going through the desert. They’d had no water for three days, not since a brief rainstorm sprinkled the sands and fi lled a few hollows in the rocks with its precious liquid. If they didn’t find water atop this plateau, they’d all be dead by sunset.
His outstretched hand grabbed on to nothing, and Korthac realized he’d reached the end of his climb. Pulling himself over the crest, he rolled onto his back, breathing hard, oblivious of the blinding sun. When he heard the scraping of those following, he forced himself first to his knees, then to his feet. His men would not see him crawling about on the dirt.
Shading his eyes, he looked around. The landscape had changed. For Empire Rising
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the fi rst time in weeks, he saw the endless sands replaced by a stony mixture of earth and clay, with scattered shrubs and bushes dotting the terrain. To the east his eyes picked out what he’d hoped to find, a line of green about two miles away that could only be trees. Where trees grew, water flowed. The gods had favored him once again. He would survive to find his destiny.
Korthac turned back to the cliff ’s edge and in a hoarse voice called out the news to his men. As he did so, he looked down at the desert floor, surprised at how distant it seemed. They’d climbed more than two thousand feet to reach the top of this elevation.
Hand on his knife, he made sure the first four men to reach the crest still carried their burdens, small sacks tied to their backs. Only then did he relax, counting and appraising each of his fighters, to see if any looked too weak to carry on. But the sight of the distant tree line gave every man renewed vigor. Dirty, crusted with blood and sand, their skin burned nearly black from weeks under the unrelenting sun, they looked more like demons than men.
When the last one reached the top, Korthac finished his count. Seventy-four men had survived the desert passage, less than half the number who survived the battle and fled with their leader into the wasteland. Nothing could stop them now. He led the way, his men stumbling along behind him.
They headed east, the same direction they’d run, walked, and crawled for the last two months.
Halfway to the trees, Korthac caught sight of a village and changed his course. As they reached the outskirts of the small cluster of mud huts, the ground gave way to a barley field that offered its heady scent to the wind. Forcing a path through the waist-high crops, his eyes picked out the mud-ridged channel carrying water to the growing plants.
Korthac lurched into a run, his men staggering behind as best they could. He reached the edge of the irrigation ditch and flung himself down, to gulp mouthfuls of the muddy stream. His men splashed about on either side, crawling and pushing until they, too, shoved their faces into the water.
Korthac drank until he needed to draw a breath, then let his face fall again into the muddy water. Only when his stomach protested did he stop.
Disgusted at showing such weakness, Korthac pushed himself to his feet, noted the flow of the water, and moved away from his men until he reached a part of the ditch still unsoiled by his followers. He knelt and drank again, but only a few mouthfuls, able to restrain himself once more.
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Then he washed his face and hands, and scooped the cool water over his body, rinsing away most of the dirt and blood that had crusted over him for days.
When Korthac stood up, he felt refreshed, even his hunger driven away by the fullness in his belly. He and his men would take what they needed from the village and rest there until they regained their strength.
He walked down the line of the canal, giving orders to his subcommanders, getting everyone out of the water before some fool drank himself to death. Splashing through the ditch, Korthac walked toward the huts.
It seemed strange that no one had noticed their approach, that no farmers worked the field. Just before he reached the first of the mud structures, he heard a scream, a piercing cry of agony that rose above a background of laughter, the mixture of sounds close ahead. Passing into the village, he counted the dozen or so scattered huts and tents. Likely less than fifty people, all struggling to stay alive in this rocky place at the edge of the great desert.
The screams increased in intensity as they guided his steps. In the center of the huts he found a crowd gathered, their attention focused on something he could not see. A young boy dancing with excitement noticed Korthac’s approach and gave a shout, pointing with his arm. Everyone turned, and Korthac saw fear and surprise on their faces as they saw his grim followers walking into their midst, hands on their weapons. A babble of sound arose at the sight of the ragged band, and the crowd parted.
Korthac strode through, until he reached the center and halted, his men bunching up behind him.
Five men lay on the ground, staked out naked in the dirt. Two had died, blood pooled around their necks, their agony ended with slit throats. Half a dozen men and women knelt around the three who lived, sticks, rocks, or knives in their hands. Korthac noticed that one captive, a big man with dark hair and a gray-flecked beard, had only scrapes and bruises on his face and chest. He would be the leader, Korthac decided, saved for last so that he could watch his followers die and better appreciate his coming torment.
“What is this place?” Korthac’s hoarse words silenced the crowd. He’d scarcely raised his voice, but everyone recognized the authority in his tone. “What is this place?”
One of the kneeling men stood and replied, but Korthac could make no sense of his gibberish. Korthac tried again, using all the tongues he knew, but with the same effect.
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“It’s called Magabad.”
Korthac could barely comprehend the words, and he glanced around to find the speaker. To his surprise, the words came from the bearded man spread-eagled on the ground, the captives’ leader. Lifting his bloody, sweat-soaked head from the ground, the man struggled to meet Korthac’s eyes.
“You understand the language of Egypt?”
“A few words, lord . . . learned from men I commanded.”
“And you are . . . ?” Korthac strained to discern the man’s words.
“My name is Ariamus. I was . . .” The man’s voice broke, and he couldn’t get the words out.
Korthac turned to his subcommanders. “Cut that one loose.”
With none of them understanding the foreign tongue, the villagers stood speechless during this exchange. But when Korthac’s men pushed forward and started to free Ariamus, the crowd protested with a jabber of incomprehensible sounds that meant nothing to Korthac. One of the farmers stepped in front of Korthac, raising his voice and gesturing. Anger showed on the villager’s face as he waved his hands in excitement, and the rest joined in to support their leader, everyone shouting at the same time.
The knife flashed from Korthac’s belt and buried itself in the villager’s stomach. Almost as quickly, Korthac withdrew it, then pushed the man to the ground with his other hand. The dying man clutched his belly and bled into the dirt, his face showing as much surprise as pain.
Korthac’s fighters moved among the now-silent crowd, shoving them back with their hands. The dozen or so adult men, surrounded by their women and children, had no chance against Korthac’s seventy, even weakened by their ordeal in the arid wasteland. The few knives his followers still possessed made the crowd step back. None of Korthac’s men possessed a sword. Even he had discarded his fine blade weeks ago, its weight magnified by the desert heat.
A handful of villagers turned and fled. Korthac frowned at the sight.
If they kept running, they would get away. His men had no stamina to pursue.
The subcommander finished cutting Ariamus free, then pushed him to his knees at Korthac’s feet.
“Water, lord,” Ariamus gasped, lowering his forehead to the ground.
“Why should I give you water? Are you the leader of these captives?”
“Yes, lord. Please, lord, we’ve had no food or water since yesterday.”
