The pounding of drums rose up over the plaza, a deep and regular beat. A peal of trumpets arose join it, triumphant in nature, and a great shout came from the assembled host.
Across the plaza came a great army on the march, the serried ranks in unison. First came men on foot, rank after rank, dark men with long spear and broad shields and brigantine armour, each step in accord with the beat of the drums. Proud the men bore themselves, with grim purpose in their eyes, dark beards oiled and curled, men drawn from many cities, banded together by a common goal that transcended old rivalries and distrust.
Behind them came men of lesser stature than the spearmen; no armour they wore and had but buckler shields for protection, but each carried a composite recurve bow made of wood and horn and sinew, with a sheath of arrows at their sides. The Nimru they were, tribesmen from the wild lands, whose skill with the bow was without parallel.
Horsemen followed on behind, bands of mounted archers who rode without formation, but in groups and clusters, riding atop swift and sure-footed horses, drawn from the nomads of the plains, drawn more for battle and plunder than were the others in the army.
Lastly came the heavy horsemen, big men on large horses, clad in glistening mail and bright golden silks despite the heat of the crimson sun aloft, mail that the horses wore too. Shields they held, and long lances from which fluttered pennons of white and black, while heavy axes hung from their saddles. Atop their helms they bore long horsehair crests. The asshuri they were, men of noble birth who had flocked from the cities to the cause, small in number but the powerful core of the gathered host.
On and on the army marched, snaking through the plaza, feet and hooves pounding on the stones, between the watching crowds, beneath a tall tower that looked down across the plaza. As they passed, the soldiers offered up a salute and cried out; “Uthar Athan Arach!” Glory to Athan Arach, the ancient war cry of a people who were no more.
Where once a tyrant had stood on a balcony looking down over his city, a woman now received the salutes, tall and pale and dark. Strands of grey now touched her raven dark hair, and her face was grim and lined, the toll of years upon it. At the cries, she raised aloft her sword in salute, white-blue flames running along its length; Dirgebringer, the sword of death.
Long years she had walked the path that had brought her to that place, to Samsanu Idusar where once Inumzur the Cerulean had reigned, a tyrant most terrible who had ruled over the city with a first of iron and dark sorceries. Now his body mouldered in the ground in an unmarked grave, forgotten and unmissed.
When the last of the army had made its way by, headed towards the camps beyond the walls of the cities, Ishkinil turned towards those who stood with her, leaders of the hosts, aides and advisors.
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“The scouts have returned?” she inquired.
A tall, burly man in red silks and silvered mail, a helm tucked beneath his arm and a curved sword at his side, nodded. His dark beard, had been oiled and curled into two forks. “They have,” he confirmed. “It is as you have said, that the host of Ash-Negasu of Arin Avech and Uthash Firebringer of Selah Sanash have set aside their ancient feuds. Even now there hosts march on Samsanu Idusar, each alone larger than our own army. Combined they will have three men for each of ours.”
“An army of slaves cannot match an army that fights for a cause, not matter the odds,” said another, a slight and short man, younger than the rest, still fresh faced and richly clad in a silk shirt of the deepest blue with elaborate embroidery, though even he bore a sword.
“More than mere slaves they have, Anubarak,” the tall warrior stated, “For there is also the dark sorcery of the tyrants to contend with.”
“I have seen and tasted those sorceries before, Shar-kalal. We do not need to fear them.”
Shar-kalal made to reply but Ishkinil held up her hand. “Peace,” she said. “Both of you have the right of it. They wish to combine, to overwhelm us with their numbers and their sorceries. That we can not allow. We must march ourselves, and march hard, to take them on each alone. Who is the closest?”
“Ash-Nigasu,” Shar-kalal answered, “Though the window open for us in narrow.”
“Show me,” Ishkinil said.
A map was brought forth, laid upon a bench on the balcony, showing the city of Samsanu Idusar and its surrounds. From the city, a network of roads ran out, into the deserts and wastes beyond. Shar-Kala pointed to a point along the road north of the city. “Ash-Negasu is here,” he said, “While Uthash is here,” he added, moving his finger to a point to the north-west. He moved his finger down the road Uthash followed to a point where it joined with the one Ash-Negasu’s army marched along. “They plan to combine their forces here. Uthash was delayed in the start of his march and will arrive two or three days later than Ash-Negasu.”
“As you say, that gives us a chance, narrow as it might be,” Ishkinil mused, studying the map. “We need to press and defeat Ash-Negasu while preserving strength enough to deal with Uthash when he arrives. Here,” she said, pointing to a spot north of the junction between the roads where an old river had once run across it. “It will be a hard march, but if we catch them here, we will have the advantage.”
Sha-kalal nodded, stroking his beard. “It is risky, for it the battle takes too long, it might be possible that Uthash can get his army south of us and we could be trapped between the two forces. We have little other options before us though.”
“Could not Uthash just march across country to join Ash-Negasu?” Anubarak asked.
Sha-kalal shook his head. “No. That region is rocky badlands, terrain of a type not easily traversed, for it contains ravines and gullies and buttes, difficult to navigate and easy to get lost in. It is faster by far to travel by the road.”
“We will do it,” Ishkinil said. “The army marches at dawn. We have much to be done before them, of supplies to arrange and ready for transport. I will leave you to your task.”
Sha-kalal inclined his head, a clenched fist over his heart, and the others followed suit before turning and filing out of the balcony. Ishkinil turned to look over the city one last time before the coming battle. The die had been cast and there was no turning back.
“Uthar Athan Arach,” she whispered to herself before she too took leave of the balcony, to ready for battle.