“Captain, the barbarians are stripping all the dead of their valuables.
Some of our men tried to do the same but the barbarians put their hands on their swords, so they backed off.”
“Don’t worry about the loot,” Esk kar said with a tired laugh. “After a battle, all the captured weapons and trophies belong to the chief. He divides it up according to how well each man fought or who’s in most need.
Tell the men they’ll get their share.”
A voice called out from the direction of the barbarians, and Esk kar twisted his head toward the battlefield. The chief of the strange band moved toward him, assisted by the same warrior who’d stood over him during the last of the fight.
“Here comes their leader.” Esk kar tried to get up, but his leg failed him and he couldn’t seem to manage with his one arm. “Help me up, Sisuthros.”
Sisuthros put his arm under Esk kar’s shoulder and started to lift, but the younger warrior, now only a few steps away, called out in the trade language, telling him to leave Esk kar on the ground. A few moments later, the commander of the barbarians sat down gingerly opposite Esk kar. The young warrior stood directly behind his chief, a grim look on his face.
“Greetings, Chief of the Strangers. I am Mesilim, leader of the Ur Nammu. This is my son, Subutai.” He twisted his head slowly, as if in pain, to nod toward the warrior behind him. Mesilim had a great bruise on his forehead and cuts on both his arms, bound up with rags already soaked in blood. He spoke the language of the steppes people. He paused, then glanced at Esk kar’s men sitting nearby.
Esk kar realized his mistake. When clan leaders spoke, only the chief ’s family or his subcommanders could be present. All others must be out of earshot, lest they heard words not fit for their ears.
“Sisuthros, move the men away.” Sisuthros looked apprehensive, but led the men about twenty paces away, barely out of earshot.
Esk kar waited until Sisuthros returned. Sisuthros followed the example of the warrior, and stood behind him. “My name is Esk kar, war leader of the village of Orak, and I give honor to the great clan leader Mesilim who has killed many warriors this day.”
Esk kar looked up at the son. “And to his strong son who slew all Alur Meriki who dared to face him.” Better too much praise than risk offending anyone’s honor.
“Your men fought bravely, Chief Esk kar,” Mesilim said, “but I would know why you joined the fight. You ride and dress as people of the farms, and they’ve little love for any steppes people.”
A delicate way to put it. “People of the farms” was about the politest way a tribesman could say “dirt digger.” Still, Mesilim had made an effort.
“My people fight the Alur Meriki. Is not the enemy of my enemy my friend? We were on a scouting party when we saw your warriors attacked.
Who would not join such brave fighters?”
The hint of a smile crossed Mesilim’s face. Esk kar wondered whether he’d overdone the praise. Nevertheless, Mesilim and his men would have all been dead by now without Esk kar’s help, though of course the chief couldn’t ever admit that. Out of respect and politeness, Esk kar couldn’t mention it either.
“It’s as you say, Chief Esk kar. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
You saved many lives today, including my own. But can you tell me why you fight the Alur Meriki? They are a clan of many, many warriors, and the people of the farms cannot stand against them.”
“It is not our wish to go to war against any of the steppes people, Chief Mesilim. But the Alur Meriki march toward our village with all their strength, and we’ve chosen to fight rather than run.”
Esk kar saw disbelief cross Mesilim’s face and guessed what Mesilim was thinking-that no farmers stood a chance against such a great force of warriors. “My village has many people, almost as many as in the Alur Meriki tribe. We’ve built a great stone wall around our village, and we will fight the Alur Meriki from the wall, not from horseback.”
Mesilim looked down at the ground, too polite to show either his doubts or disgust with such an un — warrior — like strategy. Instead he explained his own clan. “My people first fought the Alur Meriki more than two years ago. We fought bravely and killed many of them, but they overwhelmed us with their greater numbers. Now the Ur Nammu are almost gone. Most of our warriors have been killed. Only we are left to carry on the fight. Almost all our women and children… dead or taken by the Alur Meriki.” His voice couldn’t conceal the sadness of his heart. “We fight on because I’ve sworn the Shan Kar against them, though it might have been better if I’d fallen in battle today.”
Esk kar glanced up at Subutai with even more respect. Many a son would put a knife in a father’s back some dark night rather than continue a death fight. For that’s what the Shan Kar proclaimed, a fight to the death, and Mesilim had condemned his followers to that fate since they had no chance of victory. The son must have great loyalty as well as great strength to protect such a father.
“Great Chief, there’s much I would ask you regarding the Alur Meriki.
You have knowledge of my enemy and it would aid my people to learn these things from you. If you’d be willing to share your knowledge with me.”
Mesilim nodded. “Yes, we’ve much to talk about. But first, let us take care of the wounded, bury the dead, and divide the spoils. It’ll be dark soon.” He offered up his hand to his son, who reached down and helped him to his feet, then escorted him back to the Ur Nammu.
His men rushed back as Mesilim moved away, their questions coming fast. When they gathered around, Esk kar explained their position. “For now, we’re considered to be friends to the Ur Nammu, since we fought beside them. They’ll collect all the valuables from the dead, and it will be divided later amongst all who fought. By custom, Chief Mesilim will make the division since he has the most warriors on the field. We must bury our dead and tend to the wounded.” He saw doubt in some eyes, and decided to explain further.
“Don’t worry. They could kill us easily if they chose to.” The Ur Nammu had about twenty — five warriors still fit to fight. “These people have much knowledge about our enemy. More than that, they could help in our own fight. So make sure you give no offense to any of them. They’re all that’s left of a proud people, fighting a war to the death against our own foes. Now, help me up.”
Sisuthros and Maldar pulled him to his feet and watched as he tested his leg. The swelling on his thigh looked enormous now, but he took a few steps with their help and realized gratefully the bone hadn’t broken, or the leg would not have stood his weight. Nevertheless, whenever he tried to put weight on it, sharp pain lanced through him. Esk kar asked for a crutch of some kind. Maldar picked up a broken lance and gave it to him.
Despite his injuries, Esk kar insisted on examining each of his men.
Most of the wounds didn’t appear too severe, mainly cuts and slashes.
Zantar, knocked unconscious during the fight, remained stretched out on the ground, his eyes unfocused, still woozy and barely coherent. Only Mitrac had escaped without a scratch.
The surviving horse boy, Tammuz by name, had the worst wound.
Standing over him, Esk kar saw the boy’s left arm was badly broken, probably in more than one place. The slightest touch or movement brought a moan of agony to Tammuz’s lips.
“Well, Tammuz, I see you disobeyed my orders. Next time, maybe you’ll know better.” Aside from the arm, the rest of his cuts and bruises seemed minor enough.
“I wanted to fight, Captain,” Tammuz answered, his voice thin as he fought back the tears. Even the effort to speak made him wince. “I killed one of them, I did, with the… bow. Mitrac saw it, I’m sure … he did.”
Eskkar had brought two riding bows with the expedition, but they’d been left behind with the other horses. The foolish boys had strung them and followed behind the men when they could. “I’m sure you did, Tammuz. Rest now.”
The broken arm was beyond Esk kar’s ability to bandage and the boy would likely be dead in a day or two. He turned to Maldar. “Give Tammuz water, then wine, lots of it, to ease his pain.” Using his crutch, Esk kar turned and looked toward the Ur Nammu.
Mesilim and his son, nearly finished caring for their wounded, had begun the burial process. As Esk kar watched, several riders dashed off on some unknown errands, while others started clearing a burial space against one of the canyon walls. He hobbled toward Mesilim, leaning heavily on the crutch, until he reached a knot of warriors around Mesilim. They eyed him curiously but parted to let him through. Mesilim looked up.
“Honorable Chief,” Esk kar began, “I have a wounded boy. His arm is badly broken and is beyond our skills to
