“What about all your men behind the Akkadians?” King Naran gestured out into the darkness, where he knew the rest of the Sumerian horsemen were watching the assault. “Why aren’t they attacking? Are they cowards?”
Razrek ignored the king’s words. “Mattaki, get every man who can fight on the wall. Forget the fires.”
King Naran shook himself free of Razrek’s grip. “Damn you, Razrek! You said you came to protect Larsa.” His voice rose shrilly over the parapet. “You and your filthy horsemen have brought this down on our heads!”
Razrek jerked his knife from his belt, and shoved the point against Naran’s throat. “Talk to me like that again and I’ll kill you. Now get off the wall!” He shoved the king away.
Naran stumbled backwards and fell, almost toppling off the parapet. He scrambled to his feet, his hand clutching his throat. He looked aghast as blood seeped through his fingers from where Razrek’s knife had nicked him, and fled, calling out for his guards to protect him.
“Do you think our men will attack their rear?” Mattaki kept his voice low, so that the other men crowded on the wall couldn’t hear.
Razrek stared at the Akkadians. “No, they’re not coming. This caught them by surprise, and they’ll use that as an excuse not to attack. They won’t want to risk the horses in the darkness, and they’re not going to face the spearmen on foot. We’re on our own.”
“May the gods help us!”
“Forget the gods,” Razrek ordered. “Just keep the men on the walls.”
L arsa’s north side had no gate. The main entrance was on the east. The other two gates faced the south and the river to the west. From the doorway of an abandoned hut a hundred and fifty paces away from the city, Drakis lay on his belly and watched the north wall. He had no trouble making out the sentries on guard. The fires burning in the city behind them provided enough light to outline the dark forms moving about. At present, the sentries didn’t concern him. Drakis had his gaze fixed on a point midway between the wall and the ruined huts that King Naran had carelessly allowed to intrude so close to Larsa’s walls.
One of Drakis’s men had crawled to that halfway point, to get close enough to the wall to discern the signal, should it come. The man would relay the signal to Drakis and his forty men, now bunched up behind him, all keeping low and hopefully out of sight from the guards pacing the wall.
The men waiting patiently behind him were a mixed lot, slingers, archers, swordsmen and even two men who carried no weapon except for a large hammer apiece. Drakis had trained them for this operation months ago, up in Bisitun. Now Lady Trella and King Eskkar’s foresight would be put to the test. And Eskkar’s luck, of course. That would be needed, too.
“See anything?” His friend and subcommander, Tarok, sat with his back to the crumbling wall.
“Nothing yet.”
“How long do we wait?”
“Until we see… wait!” Something was moving out there. The shadow midway between Drakis and the wall had lifted its arm and waved.
“That’s the signal. Send out the slingers.”
Tarok pulled himself to his feet and whispered the necessary orders.
Drakis kept his eyes on the wall. Plenty could still go wrong, but the next few moments might give him and his men the chance to be the first Akkadians to enter Larsa.
D ragan and Ibi-sin walked toward the north wall. Each carried a heavy sack over their left shoulder. Both were too tense to say anything, that curious mixture of fear and excitement that often accompanies men when they go into battle, magnified as always by those with no real experience in fighting. Dragan understood that a trained soldier might face an enemy, but he and his brother were farmers, and with little knowledge or skill in fighting and killing
With his injured leg, Dragan couldn’t walk too fast, especially when carrying the heavy rope. But they finally reached their destination. Guards lined the wall every twenty paces, but the open space beneath the parapet was empty of life. Every man that could be spared had been summoned to defend the south wall, where the Akkadians were massing, or to put out fires.
The brothers reached the foot of the steps, but before they could start the climb, a sharp voice halted them.
“What are you doing here?”
Dragan took his foot off the first step and faced one of the guards striding toward them. “We were told to bring bread to the sentries on the walls.” Each sack did contain a single loaf of bread, in case anyone wanted to glance inside. Dragan kept his voice low and properly subservient. The men who made up Larsa’s soldiers were known for their brutality even toward their own inhabitants. “We can leave it here, and you can take it up if — ”
“Let me see what you’ve got in there.”
The guard stepped closer, and Dragan struck, bringing his hand up from alongside his leg and plunging the knife in the man’s stomach. A moment later, Ibi-sin’s knife flashed into the man’s neck. The guard fell to the ground, legs thrashing, a low gurgling the only sound he could make, a noise that went unheard against the shouts of those fighting the flames burning throughout the city.
They wiped their hands and blades on the dying man’s tunic as they’d been taught, gathered the sacks, and made their way up the parapet. Once on top, they took only a few paces before another guard moved away from the wall to see what they wanted.
“Bread, master,” Dragan said. “Your commander said to give each man a loaf.”
The sentry scarcely gave them a glance. “About time. Half the men have deserted their posts. I’ve been up here for half the night with nothing to — ”
The man died before he could finish his words, struck down by Dragan’s fierce thrust. One of Akkad’s soldiers had taught him how to make that move, driving the blade quickly up into the man’s ribs with all his strength. It was, Dragan realized, easier the second time.
The unexpected attack made even less noise, and that, too, was easily drowned out by the tumult coming from the south. Ibi-sin shoved the second guard’s body close to the wall, where it might escape notice.
They moved down the wall to the next sentry. He died as quietly as the others. That gave them over forty paces of wall to themselves. Ibi-sin pulled open the sacks and dumped the heavy rope. A support beam projected out over the ground beneath the parapet, and he looped one end of the rope around the beam and fastened the knot, just as he’d been trained on Akkad’s own walls.
Ten paces away, Dragan did the same. Before he had finished, Ibi-sin leaned over the wall, clutching a long strip of white cloth and waving his arms. Neither brother could see anything in the darkness, but he hoped Akkadians were out there and watching.
“What do we do now?” Ibi-sin’s whisper sounded excited.
“We wait until… there! Someone’s coming.
A crouching shape rose up out of the earth like a spirit and flitted toward the wall. Suddenly, the rope went taut and, in moments, faster than Dragan thought anyone could climb up the wall, a boy slid over the top. At least, he looked like a boy to Dragan. He carried no weapons, just another rope slung around his neck.
He ducked his head and shrugged the rope off his shoulder. “Take this.” He handed the third rope to Ibi-sin, and pulled something from his tunic. “Help them up.”
Both ropes went taut again, and two more men pulled themselves up and over the wall.
Shappa, the first Akkadian to breach Larsa’s walls, ignored them. He dropped a stone in his sling and waited. The guards were visible enough, but most of them were facing inwards, watching the city burn. Smoke hung in the air, stinging the eyes, rasping the throat, and already carrying the stench of burning flesh throughout the city. Fire- arrows continued to rise and fall through the sky, but fewer now that most of the fires had taken root.
The first six men up the ropes were slingers, and they knelt against the wall, staying in the shadows. Shappa walked along the parapet, forcing himself to move slowly and purposefully, as if he belonged. He carried the sling in his left hand. His left hand was as his right, and he could use his sling almost as well with either hand. His right hand held a long copper knife concealed behind his leg.
The next sentry never saw the knife that flashed into his stomach. Shappa pressed his sling against the man’s mouth to muffle any cries, but the man went down without a sound. Within a few heartbeats, the rest of the slingers followed. Soon two more ropes were being fastened to the parapet supports.
