Empire Rising: A Novel

Prologue

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 flesh, 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 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 filled 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 the first 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. 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.

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.

Korthac thought of his own hunger and the harsh passage just completed. You will serve me…Ariamus? If I give you your life, you and your men will swear to obey my commands? His voice rang out over the village, and Korthac felt his power and purpose returning. Serve me faithfully, or you die.

Whatever you say…lord. Just give me water.

Korthac gazed at those surrounding him. Only fear or obedience showed on their faces, the first of those in this new land to submit to his rule. He turned to his subcommanders. Round up the villagers. Have them bring food and water. He walked toward the largest of the nearby huts, unable to resist the shady interior any longer. And bring that one to me. He pointed to Ariamus, still crouching in the dirt. We have much to discuss.

Fifteen days later, the horror of the desert trek had almost faded from memory. Korthac had gained back much of the weight he’d lost and almost all of his strength. The bloody scabs on his hands and knees had closed, then healed. Belted around his waist hung a well-made bronze sword, taken from one of the villagers who had in turn captured it from Ariamus. Korthac’s dark hair hung neatly around his shoulders, trimmed and combed by one of the village women.

A slight man with the wiry muscles and the endurance of a runner, Korthac knew he had to stay fit, had to be stronger and more skillful with every weapon than the men he commanded. They must fear his anger as much as they respected his cunning. It must always be so.

The day after they reached the village, Korthac set up a regimen for himself. Each morning he trained with the wooden swords the sullen villagers carved for him and his men. Then he spent three hours with Ariamus, learning the main dialects of the Land Between the Rivers, as the inhabitants called the farmlands they occupied.

Afterward, Korthac rode for two hours, hardening his thighs and back as he forced the village’s only horse up and down the steep and rocky hills until his mastery of the animal had returned. While he rode, his subcommanders kept Ariamus busy; they took charge of their newest recruit, forcing him to learn the dialect of northern Egypt. Their wooden swords served another function: to make sure their pupil applied himself diligently.

When darkness approached, Korthac returned to his language lessons with Ariamus. They talked long into the night. Korthac learned not only the language and its nuances, but also the customs and beliefs of the people in this new land. This night, an hour before sunset, Korthac relaxed on a small mat under a poplar tree, his back leaning against the slim trunk. Six feet away, Ariamus sat cross-legged in the dirt. Two of Korthac’s men squatted a few paces behind Ariamus.

Korthac had learned much from Ariamus, far more than the man intended to reveal. It hadn’t taken long to discover his weaknesses—his lust for gold, women, and power. But Korthac trusted no one, and so his men remained nearby. He didn’t want Ariamus to have any sudden change of heart, at least not until the man had given up every bit of useful information he possessed.

So, Ariamus, tell me again about this great village of Orak.

I’ve already told you everything I know, lord. My head aches trying to remember more to tell you. He looked up at Korthac, noted the frown that had suddenly formed, and quickly went on. Lord, Orak is about two hundred miles from this place, across both the Euphrates and the Tigris rivers. A few weeks ago they drove off a mighty barbarian horde. Now Orak is the most powerful village in the land. They say that soon all villages in the countryside will defer to Orak.

And their leader, this…Eskkar?

An ignorant barbarian, lord. A stupid lout driven out by his own kind, no doubt for good reason. He could barely speak our language when he came to Orak, and he drank his pay as soon as he earned it. He was my least subcommander when I led Orak’s guard. If it wasn’t for his skill with a horse, he’d have been nothing more than a common soldier.

Yet now you say he commands three thousand people in Orak while you nearly died here in the dirt. Doesn’t that seem…strange to you?

Ariamus squirmed and clenched his fist, uncomfortable at being reminded how far he’d fallen. Eskkar took a witch for a wife. Some slave girl from the south who belonged to one of Orak’s ruling families. She bewitched him. They say she rules Orak through him.

Korthac didn’t believe in enchantments, but most of his men did, so he let the comment pass. The superstitions of Egypt had helped him there, and whatever foolish beliefs held sway in this land would do the same.

Did she also put a spell on the men of Orak, to turn them into warriors? Or perhaps these barbarians you feared so much were such puny fighters they let a village of farmers and shopkeepers defeat them?

The barbarians are ferocious fighters, lord, and none can stand against them. But the villagers built a mud wall around Orak, and the barbarians could not overwhelm it. The wall saved them, not Eskkar.

Korthac noted the flush that came over Ariamus’s face at the mention of barbarians, apparently wild tribes of nomadic horsemen from the distant steppes. Though Korthac had coaxed the whole story out of him more than a week ago, he kept probing Ariamus’s memory, searching for more details or any hint of deception. Each retelling yielded some new fact for Korthac to ponder.

Once again, Ariamus related how a small raiding party of these wandering horsemen had ambushed him and his band of rogues, killing most of them and seizing all their accumulated loot and horses. Ariamus and a handful of men managed to escape on foot, driven to the west. They’d run and walked for over a week until they reached this miserable collection of huts called Magabad. Ariamus had taken over the village, but he didn’t have enough men, and after two days of indignities, the villagers rose up in the night. They killed two of their oppressors as they slept and captured the rest, to put them to the torture. If Korthac had arrived an hour later, Ariamus would have died under the knife, along with all his men.

You say this Eskkar was once one of these fierce barbarians, so hated by the people of Orak. Yet despite that, though you say he did nothing, Orak’s inhabitants made him their ruler. Your customs for selecting leaders are very different from those of Egypt.

Ariamus bit his lip at the sarcasm, no doubt tempted to say something rash. No, lord, not nothing. Eskkar can fight, and he has some skill with a sword.

Korthac wondered what other skills this Eskkar possessed. Not that it mattered. Since you knew him so well, describe him again, Ariamus. Let me see him through your words, before I meet him.

Putting down his empty wine cup, Ariamus licked his lips. He’s a common barbarian, lord, one of the horse people. They tend to be taller and stronger than those of us who grew up in these lands. Riding a horse all day keeps any man fit and hard. Eskkar is taller even than most of his kind, taller than me by at least a hand’s breadth, and nearly as strong.

His Egyptians considered the powerfully built Ariamus tall, so Eskkar must be of considerable size, which might make him a formidable fighter, at least to these people. Go on. Show me his face.

Ariamus closed his eyes for a moment. He has straggly dark brown hair, almost black, that he usually forgets to tie back. Hides most of his face half the time. Brown eyes, and hardly any beard. A thin scar, probably from a knife, slants down his left cheek, from just below the eye. Still has all his teeth, or at least he did when I last saw him. Speaks slowly, and with a strong accent. I thought he was dull-witted when I first met him. Ariamus shrugged. Just an ordinary barbarian, lord. I still can’t believe he survived the barbarians’ attack.

Despite Ariamus’s dismissive words, Korthac knew better. It took more than a sword to command, and ordinary men don’t rule mighty villages.

But now these barbarians are gone, the fields are ravaged, and bandits such as you roam the countryside. Korthac smiled at Ariamus. Once the man learned his place, Ariamus would make an excellent servant. More important, his brutish skills and crude desires matched Korthac’s needs perfectly. The time had come to tell the man of his role in Korthac’s plan.

You are an experienced fighter, Ariamus, and I require one such as yourself, who knows the land and its people. You can help me, and at the same time take your revenge on Orak. And you can earn much gold and a place of honor in my city. Korthac noted the gleam of interest that widened Ariamus’s eyes at the mention of gold.

Then a puzzled look came over Ariamus’s face. Your city, lord?

Yes, my city. Orak will be my city when I take charge of it. My men are powerful and experienced soldiers. They have fought many battles and survived passage through the great desert. I intend first to rule this Orak, and then all these lands, as I reigned over the cities and villages of Egypt. You will help me, and as my servant, you will have more power than you’ve ever dreamed of. Or have you already forgotten your oath to me?

Ariamus glanced toward the two men standing nearby, watching and listening in silence. You do not have enough men to conquer Orak.

Do not underestimate my desert fighters. They are the strongest of those who fought for me in Egypt, and each one of them is worth two or three of your kind.

Even so, Orak has hundreds of men to defend it, lord, Ariamus said, shaking his head. You do not have enough men.

No, not yet. But you will find them for me, and you will command them. Such men will prefer to follow one of their own kind, at least in the beginning. That is why I need someone from this land who knows how to fight and how to lead men. The treasure I carried across the desert will pay my new followers until all of Orak’s wealth is mine. If this land is as troubled and unsettled as you claim, we will soon have more than enough men.

In the desert, Korthac’s followers had taken turns carrying the four sturdy bags containing amethyst, cornelian, jasper, onyx, quartz crystal, emeralds, and other sacred stones stolen from rich merchants or looted from the temples of the Egyptian gods. His men had thrown away their weapons, their gold, even their clothing, but Korthac refused to let them abandon the last part of the wealth he’d captured. They begged him to bury it, but Korthac killed one who refused the burden, and after that, they obeyed. He knew it would be needed if they made it across the desert.

Korthac recognized the doubt on Ariamus’s face. Don’t think I will ride against the walls of Orak like those ignorant barbarians. No, I will take Orak from within. One night of blood will establish my rule. And you will help me.

What can I do, lord? Ariamus leaned forward, greed and the desire for revenge on Orak struggling with his usual caution. I mean…lord…how can I…

You can and will do as I command, Ariamus. You will help me fulfill my destiny, which is to rule this land. If the village is as rich and prosperous as you claim, its resources will supply me and my men with all that we need. Soon all the other villages up and down the two rivers will succumb to my will. I will build a mighty empire, starting with Orak.

Sufficient light remained for Korthac to see the lingering doubt in the man’s eyes. He smiled at his newest follower.

And you, Ariamus, you will have more wealth and power as my subcommander than you could ever attain on your own. In my name, you will command hundreds of fighters, and enjoy the choicest women in Orak and the surrounding countryside. Or are you not interested in what I offer?

I am interested, lord, Ariamus said. I will be your subcommander.

Korthac smiled. As he expected, Ariamus’s greed had overcome any misgivings. For wealth and power, the man would do anything.

Unlike most men, Korthac had no interest in gold and gemstones, mere tools to bind men to him. Only power, the power to rule everyone, to command their lives or their deaths, meant anything to Korthac. That destiny had guided him even before he grew to manhood, and he would not turn away from it now.

Tomorrow we will leave this place and begin our journey east. We’ll take a few villagers with us as slaves, to carry food and water. I will allow you and your men to kill the rest, as revenge for capturing you. Besides, it’s best that no one know from whence we came. As we travel, I will tell you how I will capture this Orak. Korthac changed the subject with a wave of his hand. But now, tell me more about Eskkar, this wanderer turned mighty ruler. I must learn the ways of my enemy.

Lord, I’ve told you everything I can remember.

I am sure you can remember much more, Ariamus. Or do you need some encouragement? Korthac smiled once again and leaned back against the tree. Take your time and start at the beginning. Tell me of when you came to Orak, what you did, how you became captain of the guard.

Korthac had heard the story several times already, but each reiteration added some new insight, some further detail that helped him better understand this land and its people. He called out for ale, all this miserable village could provide in the way of strong spirits. A woman appeared with a jar and two wooden cups. Kneeling, she filled his cup, then did the same for Ariamus before returning to the shadows.

He watched Ariamus staring into his ale cup. The man wanted to drink, but he’d learned his place and his manners in the last few weeks. Only after his new master had taken a sip would the man drink from his own cup. Korthac drank a mouthful of the bitter barley brew, then waited until Ariamus drank, gulping loudly until he lowered his empty cup.

Now, Ariamus, tell me again of this barbarian and the slave girl who bewitched him. They stand in my way…our way now. So tell me everything, every little story you can remember, about Eskkar and his witch-wife.

1

3157 B.C.E.—The City of Akkad (Orak), on the eastern bank of the Tigris River…

Lord Eskkar of Akkad pulled down hard on the restive horse, as impatient as its master to begin the long-awaited campaign. He had planned to be on his way soon after sunup. Instead a missing horse, then a broken pack strap, and finally two soldiers still befuddled from too much drinking the night before prevented the early departure. At last his embarrassed subcommanders signaled their readiness.

Eskkar gritted his teeth as he yanked on the halter, turned the horse around, and took the first steps to reclaim the countryside from roving bands of marauders. A few cheers came from the small crowd of Akkadians who bothered to watch his departure, but most just stared in silence. Less than two months ago every one of them had praised his name to the gods, acclaiming him ruler of Akkad for saving their lives and their homes. But already many chaffed at the very restrictions he established to protect them.

As he led his soldiers through the city’s gates and out onto the plain, Eskkar knew that, at this moment, he cared more about getting out of Akkad than pacifying the surrounding farmlands. With each step away from the city he felt his responsibilities lessen and he longed to put his horse to the gallop. That would have been unfair to the seventy soldiers, only twenty of them mounted, who marched behind him. Eskkar restrained both himself and the eager horse until he reached the first of the low hills about a mile away from Akkad.

He turned his mount aside from the trail and urged the animal up the steepest part of the slope. At the crest, the horse snorted from the climb, then restlessly pawed the earth, as if to say it wanted to race across the soft grassland, not scramble up rocky and slippery inclines. Eskkar first studied the ragged column of soldiers moving beneath him. A small force for what needed to be done, but all that could be spared to drive off the marauders and bandits who had plagued the land for almost a year, thriving in the chaos caused by the barbarian invasion. The dreaded Alur Meriki horsemen had passed on, but turmoil and anarchy marked their passage throughout the land.

Eskkar shifted his gaze to the river, only a few hundred paces away. The midmorning sun reflected off the slow-moving waters of the Tigris, giving the wide waterway a rare pale blue tint. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean air that blew across the water, glad to be rid of the city-smell of too many men and animals living too close together. Eskkar looked back toward Akkad nestling against the great curve of the river. The tall wooden gates remained open, and rising from one of the towers that guarded them, a large banner floated in the breeze. Eskkar could just make out the stalking lion embroidered on it. The lion spirit now protected the new city, the city that had changed him from a mere soldier to captain of the guard to a fighting leader, and nearly killed him in the process.

Another horse scampered up to the hilltop and his bodyguard halted beside him. Do you miss it already, Captain? Grond used the old title for his commander.

Akkad? Do I miss the stink and the noise? Or the whining and scheming? No, the place can fall to the ground for all I care. But I haven’t gone a mile yet and already I’m worrying about Trella.

Lady Trella will be well protected by the soldiers, Grond said patiently.

I suppose she’ll be safe enough for a month or so. All this had been discussed many times in the last few days. Gatus, Eskkar’s second in command and the oldest of the soldiers, doted on Trella as if she were his own daughter. Officially, Gatus would command during Eskkar’s absence, but everyone knew the real ruler of Akkad would be Lady Trella. Gatus, busy as ever with the training of new recruits, would do nothing without her approval.

Nevertheless, Eskkar stared at the city, with its hastily built walls that had withstood brutal attacks and still showed scars from the recent conflict. This very hilltop had served as a watching post for the five thousand barbarians who laid siege to Akkad for almost two months. A few hundred paces behind him lay the remains of the besiegers’ camp. He and his men would pass through it as they journeyed northward.

A tug on the halter, and Eskkar’s horse shifted to face northward. He’d seen the remnants of the onslaught, still visible everywhere around him, often enough in the last few weeks. Blackened circles of fire-split stones still contained scattered ashes marking the residue of hundreds of campfires. Animal bones lay everywhere, moved and displaced by dogs, birds, and carrion eaters. The scavengers had gorged themselves for many weeks on the battle-dead.

By now the easy pickings had disappeared, the bones gnawed clean. Human and animal waste would provide less tasty tidbits for several more weeks or until the rains came. The city’s inhabitants had gathered anything of value weeks ago. They’d searched through whatever the barbarians left behind, looking for whatever they could use or sell. More than a dozen large mounds marked the burial places of the enemy dead The common burial pits contained those who had survived the battles but died from their wounds, or the dead deemed important enough to be carried back to the barbarian camp and interred in a mass grave before being covered over.

Those barbarians who died assaulting the wall suffered the final indignity—abandoned by their clan and dumped in the river by their enemies, to be carried wherever by the whim of the gods, assigned a bitter fate in the afterlife. Everyone knew that without a proper burial, the spirits of the unburied dead would wander beneath the earth for eternity, prey for the shades and demons who would live off their tormented souls.

How many years before all this disappears, Grond said, before the grass covers everything?

His bodyguard’s question echoed Eskkar’s own thoughts. Probably two, maybe three years, he said. Farmers will be unearthing debris longer than that. You don’t fight battles like that and not leave traces everywhere.

Eskkar turned his gaze back toward the city. His city. He could make out the scars on the walls from the thousands of arrows launched against them. Even today, almost two months after the barbarians had departed, men still labored on Akkad’s repairs. So much had been destroyed, but the city and its people had survived. Most of them, Eskkar remembered soberly. Many good and brave men had died in its defense. He took comfort in knowing that the bodies of his soldiers had received the proper rites, and their phantoms would not be condemned to wander in the darkness.

Eskkar shook the black thoughts from his head. Better to think of the future than the past. We’d best be on our way, Grond. Half the day’s passed, and we’ve a long way to travel.

They wheeled their horses away from Akkad and rode down the slope. The horses wanted to stretch their legs as much as their masters, and the two men soon caught up to the rear of the soldiers. Once there, however, Eskkar slowed his mount, to ride behind the column instead of at its head, as was the usual custom. From the rear, he could observe the men, see how they marched, even encourage them if need be. One lesson Eskkar had grasped very well in the last year’s training and fighting was that he needed his soldiers’ loyalty as much as their skill.

Aware of his gaze, the soldiers at the rear of the column straightened up and quickened their pace. Eskkar knew the new men thought him a legend, the fierce warrior who had defeated the mighty Alur Meriki. The more experienced veterans knew better. They understood exactly how close they’d come to being overwhelmed by the barbarians. These recent recruits needed to master the trade of soldiering. They’d better learn quickly, Eskkar thought. They might be fighting for their lives in a week or two.

What do you think of the men? Eskkar said, glancing at his companion. Grond had been a slave in a distant land to the west before coming to Akkad. He’d fought well during the siege and earned the rank of subcommander, but now he filled the role of Eskkar’s bodyguard and friend. A big man, nearly as tall as his Captain, Grond stood even wider across the shoulders, with massive arms that, not too long ago, had carried Eskkar to safety as easily as one might carry a child. In the last few months, the former slave had saved Eskkar’s life more than once.

Grond took his time before replying. They’ll do, I suppose. But you should have brought more veterans, Captain. Seventy isn’t going to be enough to reclaim a hundred and fifty miles of rough country, not with almost half of the men newly trained.

Eskkar didn’t want to start that argument again, especially when he’d insisted enough seasoned men must stay behind to guard the walls and patrol the land to the south. He didn’t think the barbarian horde that attacked Akkad would return, but Eskkar had too much respect for their fighting abilities and their hatred of defeat to take any chances.

All we’ll be doing is chasing after stray bandits and looters, Grond. It’s not as if we’ll be facing hardened warriors in a pitched battle. Besides, the recruits need battle experience, and this is the best way to get it.

In addition to the soldiers, the column included a dozen camp boys to act as servants to those who could afford to feed them. Five liverymen looked after the fifteen pack animals and the twenty horses, and three younger sons from Akkad’s leading merchants represented their father’s trading interests. They would help reestablish local trade wherever possible. Akkad’s ruling council had also assigned two scribes to help Eskkar. They would record anything of interest and keep track of any goods or loot Eskkar and his men might acquire.

He hadn’t wanted to take the scribes, but the elders had insisted. How else, they had asked, could everything be accounted for? Eskkar had looked across the table at Trella, saw her nod her head, and gave in. Now he wondered if he had enough soldiers. It seemed such a small force to establish control of all the villages and farms north of Akkad.

Did you hear anything more about Dilgarth? Grond said, changing the subject.

Another trader arrived just before sunset yesterday, Eskkar said. He claimed he saw other wayfarers being robbed near the village. There may be several bands of thieves attacking and robbing travelers on the road between here and Dilgarth.

The small village of Dilgarth lay more than forty miles north of Akkad. Eskkar planned to pass through the place on their way to Bisitun, a much larger village that was his main destination. He intended to sweep the land clear of bandits and marauders between Akkad and Bisitun, to protect the hundreds of farmers and herders who produced the food that Akkad and its busy traders depended upon.

Well, we should be able to finish off a handful of robbers easily enough, Grond said.

Yes, after fighting the barbarians, a few bandits shouldn’t present any problems, Eskkar said. And once we’ve taken control of the land around Bisitun, the countryside should start settling down.

I hope they brew some decent ale in Bisitun, Grond said. I’m thirsty already.

They do, Eskkar said with a laugh. Just don’t try and drink it all.

The soldiers made good time that first day, the men glad to stretch their legs, out of the city and into the fresh air that already bore a hint of the autumn’s coming coolness. By the time they made their first camp, Eskkar relaxed enough to smile and joke with his men, enjoying the freedom of the trail and putting all thoughts of Akkad and its intrigues behind him.

In his heart, he felt glad to be away, free to be himself without worrying about what some merchant or tradesman would think about him. For the last few months, he’d struggled with his changing role. No longer merely a soldier defending the village, Eskkar now had to rule nearly three thousand people, all of them demanding immediate attention to their particular problem. Nothing in his years of wandering had prepared him for such responsibility. Even with Trella’s help, the weight of constant decision-making strained his patience. Unlike the preparation for the siege, when he could just make military decisions, now every conflicting claim seemed to require endless hours of discussion, which invariably turned into arguing and complaining that left neither side satisfied.

Eskkar had believed he could deal with his new position, but in the last few weeks, doubt had crept in, and he found himself growing more and more irritable and short-tempered. And that, he realized, made dealing with everyone even more difficult. So he felt glad to put down that mantle, even temporarily, and deal with something familiar—like ridding the land of thieves and murderers.

Out here in the countryside, among his men, he could be a soldier once again. That satisfaction, combined with the fresh air, the rough-cooked food, and the tiredness from walking and riding all day, let him enjoy a good night’s sleep for the first time in weeks.

The next morning Eskkar rose before dawn, happy that his body remembered the old ways. He demanded the soldiers be on their way an hour after sunup, and threatened to leave anyone and anything behind that wasn’t ready. The men had scarcely enough time to eat a hasty meal, care for the animals, and pack their goods before the march resumed. Almost immediately, complaints of sore feet and tired muscles rang out as they continued their way north, still following the east bank of the great river Tigris.

Today Eskkar ranged ahead of the main group, accompanied by Grond and six of his horsemen. They rode more toward the east, away from the river and into the countryside. Eskkar wanted to see for himself the devastation the barbarians had caused. Everywhere the scattered homes and fields lay barren, the crops burned. The grass had just started to return, having first been burnt by the villagers to deny food and fodder to the approaching enemy, and then the fresh growth overgrazed by the barbarian herds. This winter’s harvest would be small. Still, the farmers considered themselves fortunate. At least they’d have a chance to get enough of the precious and carefully preserved seeds planted in time for next season.

As they rode farther to the northeast the farms grew smaller and more isolated, and they encountered fewer people. Many fled at the sight of them. Others stood their ground, hands clenched nervously on crude weapons or farm tools. When they learned who Eskkar was, and that he meant them no harm, they relaxed their vigilance. From these farmers he learned that the small village of Dilgarth, now only a few dozen miles ahead, had in fact been captured by bandits more than a week ago. The tales of Dilgarth’s plight grew worse and worse as Eskkar’s band encountered more people wandering in the ravaged fields. His face turned grim once again.

Dispatching a rider to return to the main column and order them to speed up their pace, Eskkar and his men rode as hard as they could push the horses, alternating between a fast walk and a canter, toward the village of Dilgarth. The sun had moved well past noon when they rounded a bend in the river and saw the village less than a mile away. While they rested their horses, a party of armed men rode leisurely out of the village, heading north.

Looks like they knew we were coming, Grond commented. Should we give chase?

Eskkar stretched upright on his horse, counting the distant riders, his lips moving silently. Twelve men had ridden out, more than twice his own number and on fresh horses. No, we’ll wait here until the rest of the men get here. He could say that easily now, without having to worry some might think him afraid to fight. No one doubted his courage. And it would make a better impression on Dilgarth’s inhabitants if he entered with the whole troop.

It took another three hours before the rest of the soldiers arrived, breathing hard and complaining of the quickened pace. Eskkar gave them no rest. He entered the village at the head of his men an hour before sunset.

Dilgarth was a small place, with fewer than forty mud-and-reed houses, none with a second story. Eskkar had visited it several times in the last few years, tracking runaway slaves or thieves. Before the barbarians came, more than a hundred and fifty people lived here. All of those had fled their homes, most going to Akkad, then known as Orak, though many passed across the river or continued south. Some of those original inhabitants might have already returned, but most would have abandoned their homes for good.

Eskkar understood Dilgarth’s importance. The last sizable resting place before Akkad, the fields surrounding Dilgarth supported many crops, with soil almost as fertile as that surrounding Akkad. Perhaps as important, Dilgarth’s inhabitants had learned special skills in working with their principal harvest, flax, a plant grown not for food, but for its thin, durable fibers that could be woven into linen and other materials.

Before the invasion the local farmers and villagers had selected the finest fibers and woven them into quality linen cloth. The merchants in Akkad wanted to know when the supply of linen would be restored. The barbarian incursion had created a shortage of skilled craftsmen who could fashion linen into fine tunics, dresses, or skirts. Dilgarth had thrived for years before the barbarians swept through the land. There was no reason it shouldn’t be prosperous again.

As Eskkar and his soldiers rode in, less than a dozen men stood scattered about, watching the visitors in silence as they filed into the village. None greeted them. Those few that met Eskkar’s eyes looked sullen or suspicious. Everyone’s clothing looked ragged and filthy, covering bodies thin from lack of food. Many had bruises on their faces or bodies. He didn’t see any women or children.

Eskkar rode down the narrow lane until he reached the tiny marketplace, located at the rear of the village. He saw no carts with goods for sale, no cooking fires accompanied by the smell of roasting meat, not even any dogs running loose to yap incessantly and nip at the heels of his men’s horses. Once the dwellers of Dilgarth had lived happy and content with their lives. Now its few inhabitants had little more than rags to cover their gaunt bodies. Those who possessed anything more had lost it, either in the initial barbarian onslaught or to the departed bandits.

Without some hope for the future, these villagers might abandon their homes and take to the roads, perhaps even head toward Akkad. His city needed tradesmen and craftsmen, plus a steady supply of flax, not more refugees.

He took all this in as his horse reached the village well. He remained astride until his men, horses, and pack animals filled most of the square. The village’s center had barely enough room for all of them, but they stood patiently, waiting for his order that would give them leave to put down their burdens. Unbidden, Trella’s words came into his mind. As you won over the hearts of your soldiers, you must win over those whom you seek to rule.

Eskkar turned toward Sisuthros, his second in command, standing in front of the men, awaiting his orders. Sisuthros, rest the men here, until you find places for them to sleep. Keep part of the square clear. His eyes turned to Grond. Gather all the villagers and bring them to me. I want to hear what’s happened to them since they returned to Dilgarth. Don’t alarm them, just bring them.

His order to rest the soldiers, rather than dismiss them for the night, meant they could put down their burdens and sit on the ground, but little else. Eskkar didn’t want them wandering around, poking into people’s houses, frightening the villagers even further until he knew exactly what new calamity had taken place in Dilgarth.

He swung down from the horse, handing the halter to one of the camp boys, as Sisuthros began shouting orders. Some of the soldiers left the ranks, taking the horses to the crude corral to water and feed them. Sisuthros gave further instructions, and the majority of the soldiers, along with their animals and supplies, wedged themselves around the sides of the square, leaving the center empty.

Eskkar paced over to the rough stone well in the center of the marketplace and stood there, waiting. His mind tried to sort out what had gone on here. Except on the battlefield, where he trusted his instincts, he no longer made decisions in haste. He had learned to use whatever time he had to think things through. That included understanding what he wanted to accomplish, and what words he would use to obtain his goal. So he stood there, imagining what had befallen the village, using the time to prepare and anticipate what he would do after he heard their story.

By the time Grond and a few soldiers finished searching the huts and rounding up all the inhabitants, Eskkar had his thoughts in hand. Grond escorted the last few stragglers into the market just as Eskkar ended his count. Thirty-six people stood before him. Fourteen were men or older boys fit for manual labor. Many of the women shook with fear as they gazed at the crowd of soldiers surrounding them. Others had the look of hopelessness on their downcast faces. Eskkar noted the signs of repeated rape and beatings easily enough. He didn’t see any tears. Days or weeks of weeping had dried their eyes. The women had reached the point where even death might look inviting.

Who speaks for the village? he asked, keeping his voice calm. Silence greeted his words, and he repeated the question.

Those who speak for the village are all dead, noble. The words belonged to an old woman, gray-haired and stooped from laboring in the fields, almost invisible in the center of the crowd. A little girl of three or four seasons clung fearfully to her hand.

Are there any village elders, then?

All dead as well, noble. Her voice sounded weary, without any emotion, but her gaze met his without fear.

Eskkar scanned the crowd but every face stayed downcast, no one willing to say anything. He felt his patience wearing thin but kept his temper as he walked toward them. They shrank out of his way until he stood in front of the old woman. And what is your name, elder? Eskkar kept his voice low and his words polite.

I am called Nisaba, noble one. As for these others, they are all afraid to speak to you, lest they be killed by the bandits when they return. They said they would come back as soon as you are gone.

But you’re not afraid, Nisaba?

They have already killed my two sons. My life is finished, and I am too old for their sport. The most they can do is kill me.

No one is going to kill you, Nisaba, I promise you that. You are under my protection now.

He took her free hand and led her back to the well, the child following along, eyes wide and still holding fast to the old woman’s hand. Sit down, elder. He unslung his sword from his back, then joined her on the ground, sitting on the dirt in front of her and placing the scabbard flat across his knees. Do you know who I am?

She took her time answering him, as she gathered what was left of her ragged dress about her. You are the Noble Eskkar, and, for now, the ruler of Orak.

He couldn’t resist a smile at her use of the words for now. In the last few months he had often thought the same thing. It is no longer called Orak, Nisaba. Now it is the City of Akkad.

Orak…Akkad…it makes no difference, noble one. It was called Orak when I was a child, and I see no need to change the names of things.

Eskkar tugged at the thin beard on his chin. Trella had suggested the change of names, from Orak to Akkad, to help the people identify themselves with Eskkar and a new beginning. Eskkar had warned her that the switch might not be as smooth out in the countryside as within Akkad’s walls.

Well, elder, we’ll talk more of that later. For now, you are the elder of the village of Dilgarth and you will speak for the village. He lifted his eyes over her head to watch the reaction of the villagers. Is there any other that thinks he should be the village elder?

No one challenged his decision. Nisaba, Dilgarth is under the protection of the City of Akkad, and all here will obey the laws of Akkad from now on. Eskkar raised his voice, and addressed Dilgarth’s inhabitants. Akkad’s soldiers will soon clear the land of bandits, and you and your families will be safe in your shops and on your farms. The trade of flax and other goods will resume with Akkad, and, as before, you will be fairly paid for your goods. If you have complaints, bring them to your village elder, he nodded toward Nisaba, and she will present them to the soldiers stationed here or bring them to Akkad. If necessary, I will make the final decision. The customs of Akkad will apply to all equally, and Nisaba and the soldiers will see that they are enforced fairly.

Eskkar felt glad to have that formality over with, though he doubted many understood what it really meant. Not that it mattered. Over the next few months, everyone in Dilgarth will soon appreciate the stability and security Akkad could provide. He returned his gaze to the new village elder. Now, tell me about the bandits that rode off when we arrived.

The story came out slowly, as Eskkar’s commanders gathered close around their leader, anxious to hear the tale. The rest of the soldiers strained to hear Nisaba’s soft words, and for a long time the only other sound came from the occasional movement of one of the horses crowded together across the square.

Two months ago, the villagers began returning to Dilgarth after the barbarian migration had moved on, slipping back to their houses by ones and twos as they started to rebuild their homes and look to their crops and animals. They had rejoiced when they heard that the invaders had been defeated and driven off from Akkad, and even more farmers and craftsmen had returned.

But a little less than two weeks ago, while Eskkar and his men remained locked behind their walls, still afraid to venture forth until the barbarians moved out of striking distance from the city, a band of about twenty bandits had ridden into Dilgarth in the middle of the night, forcing the small fence and killing any who opposed them. By dawn, they had taken what women they wanted and looted the village.

Nisaba thought they might move on after a few days of pleasure, but these raiders seemed content to have the villagers gather and prepare food for them while they enjoyed their wives and daughters. The bandits remained in the village, a few now and then riding out on small raiding parties, looking to rob any farmers trying to work their lands or searching for any weak or isolated travelers on the road to Akkad.

The intruders had been cunning enough to kill any who attempted to escape to Akkad, and so only rumors had reached the city of their activity, though enough travelers had been robbed and attacked on the roads. The bandits had commandeered all the local food while the villagers went hungry. This morning, a little after dawn, a rider brought word of Eskkar’s approach. They had taken their time before riding off, insolently waiting until the soldiers from Akkad had been spotted less than a mile from the village.

When Nisaba finished, the crowd remained silent. Eskkar knew that everyone, soldiers and villagers alike, waited to see what he would do. Not two full days’ march from Akkad, and already he had a problem. Dilgarth was an insignificant place, a mere way station on the road to Akkad, and no one, soldier or villager, would be surprised if he left it and its misery behind. Eskkar had urgent business farther north, at Bisitun, and he could ill afford the time to scour the countryside looking for a small party of well-mounted and well-armed bandits, or to worry about the fate of a few pathetic villagers. Eventually, the bandits would leave the area when they had exhausted its food or tired of its women. Or when Eskkar established control of the land to the north. So in a matter of days or weeks, the problem here would be solved even if he did nothing.

Nevertheless, these villagers had now come under his protection. If Eskkar could