escape.”
His knife inscribed fresh lines in the sand as he spoke. The plan he sketched was simple, but unlike anything they had ever done. The lay of the land would help, as would the Tigris. By the time Thutmose — sin finished, their heads nearly touched as they leaned over the map.
“It’s a cunning plan, Thutmose — sin. We’ll gain many slaves.”
“The tactics are simple enough, and we’ve twice as many warriors as we need. And the dirt — eaters will do what they always do, and so help destroy themselves.”
Finally Urgo nodded. “Yes, Sarrum, I can’t think of anything that can go wrong. We’ll capture much of value to the clan. I’ll begin the preparations. There are many months to work out the details, and we can always change our tactics if something unexpected happens.”
“Then it’s decided.” Thutmose — sin rose to his feet, his subcommander doing the same. “We’ll discuss it tonight with the council.” They’d approve it, of course, especially if Urgo supported it.
He swung back up on his horse, his bodyguards again forming up around him, then rode back to the edge of the escarpment for one last look at the caravan. His people continued their inexorable march. Their traveling pace would be slow, but the rulers of the world had no need to hurry.
Thutmose — sin smiled in anticipation as he turned his horse around and put him to the gallop. He had set in motion the route and the objectives of the Alur Meriki for the next six months. Those plans meant that some villages would be spared, their foolish inhabitants thanking the gods for their deliverance, never realizing that they existed only at his sufferance.
This great village of Orak would be taken just as easily as the smallest farmhouse in their path. Orak’s inhabitants would die or become slaves.
He, Thutmose — sin, had decided and so it would be. No clan, no village, no force of nature could stop the full might of his people. And this time when he finished with it, Orak would be sunk back to the mud from which it came. This time, the anthill would not recover.
PART 1
1
The eastern bank of the river Tigris, two hundred miles north of the great sea…
Awake, Eskkar, awake now! Nicar sent for you. You must come at once!” Eskkar realized the words had been spoken several times, accompanied by vigorous shaking. Now they ceased being mere sounds and became instead a message, one that slowly found its way through the haze that still clutched at his mind and body from last night’s drinking.
“Enough,” Eskkar grunted, swinging an arm clumsily at the messenger.
But the nimble youth dodged easily. Eskkar pushed himself up to a sitting position on his hard pallet, while the room revolved around him and the blood pounded in his head from the sudden motion. His throat felt dry, like the gritty dirt floor beneath his naked feet, and his skull seemed ready to split apart at any moment as he paid the price for last night’s vinegary wine.
“Water,” he growled. After a few moments, the messenger placed a wooden cup in Eskkar’s shaking hands. He swallowed a few mouthfuls, though much of the liquid dribbled down his chin onto his bare chest. His eyes refused to focus, and the bright sunlight that streamed through the open doorway into the shadowy soldiers’ quarters added to his misery.
As soon as Eskkar lowered the cup, the boy started again. “Hurry, Eskkar. Nicar awaits you now! You must come at once.”
What in the name of the gods could Nicar want from him? But Nicar’s name and position as the ruler of the village of Orak started him moving, stumbling first to the rank chamber pot inside the soldiers’ common room, then back to his pallet to don his tunic.
Leaving the barracks, his eyes half — shut against the sun, Esk kar managed to find his way to the well. He leaned against the rough stones for a moment, then upended the bucket to splash water on his face before drinking.
Somewhat refreshed, Esk kar looked up, surprised to see the sun so high. Demons below, he must have drunk a whole skinful of that bitter date wine. He cursed himself for being a fool.
When Esk kar turned away he saw a handful of guards, men who should have been busy at their daily tasks, standing uneasily near him. “Where is Ariamus?” he asked no one in particular, his voice sounding hoarse in his ears. Ariamus, captain of the guard, maintained the few laws of Orak and defended the village from bandits and marauders.
“Ariamus is gone,” a gray — bearded veteran answered, spitting in the dirt to show his disgust. “He’s run off, taken a dozen men with him, as well as extra horses and arms. The talk in the market says that barbarians are heading south, coming toward Orak.”
Esk kar let the words penetrate as he studied their faces. He saw fear and uncertainty, mixed in with the shock of losing their master. No wonder they looked toward him. If Ariamus had run off, then Esk kar would be in charge, at least until a new captain could be chosen. That would explain the summons from Nicar.
The grinning messenger plucked at Esk kar’s tunic. He refused to hurry, taking his time to draw another bucket from the well. He washed his hands and face before returning to the barracks to lace on his patched and worn sandals. Only then did he follow the boy through the winding streets to the imposing mud — brick and stone house of Nicar, Orak’s leading merchant and foremost among the Five ruling Families that dictated the daily com- ings and goings of the village.
The youth pulled Esk kar past the gatekeeper and into the house, then guided him up the narrow steps to the upper rooms. The house seemed quiet, with none of the usual visitors waiting their turn to see the busy merchant.
Nicar stood on the tiny balcony that looked out over the village. Quite a bit shorter than Esk kar, the gray — haired merchant carried the extra weight around his middle that marked him as a man of wealth.
Esk kar grunted something he hoped sounded like a greeting and stood still as the most important and richest man in the village looked him over.
Esk kar realized Nicar was studying him with the same care used when selecting the best slave from a bad lot.
Nearly three years ago, Esk kar had limped into Orak, with nothing but a sword on his back and an infected leg wound. Since then he’d seen Nicar many times, but Orak’s most important person had never paid any particular attention to the tall, dark — haired subcommander who rarely spoke and never smiled.
When Nicar finished his scrutiny, he turned away and looked out over the village. Suddenly Esk kar felt uncomfortable in his shabby tunic and worn sandals.
“Well, Nicar, what do you want?” The words came out harsher than intended.
“I’m not sure what I want, Esk kar,” the merchant answered. “You know Ariamus is gone?”
Esk kar nodded.
“You may not know that the barbarians have recently crossed the Tigris, far to the north. The killing and burning have already begun there.”
It took a moment before Nicar’s words struggled through the vapors cloud-ing Esk kar’s mind. Finally he understood their meaning. So rumor spoke the truth for once. He leaned heavily against the balcony wall, aware of his aching head. His belly cramped painfully, and for a moment he thought he would vomit. Esk kar struggled to keep control of his thoughts and his stomach.
Nicar continued. “From the far north, through the foothills, then down the plain toward the river.” He hesitated, to give Esk kar time to comprehend his words. “They’re moving steadily south. It’s likely they’ll turn in
