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Chapter 1

Somewhere east of the Taurus Mountains, 3173 BC

 The sun still hovered just above the distant horizon when Nasir strode up to Eskkar and shoved him so hard that he landed on his back. 

 “Don’t get up unless you’re willing to fight,” Nasir said, his loud voice making the challenge straight-forward.  At least ten of his companions ranged behind him, encouraging their leader and laughing at his latest victim.

 Eskkar, surprised by the unexpected attack, reacted fast enough.  He rolled to the side and rose to his feet, feeling anger flare through him.  He never thought about staying on the ground, admitting Nasir’s authority over him in front of everyone.

 “Not here, you fool,” Nasir said, shaking his head at his opponent.  “You don’t want the warriors to see you beaten, do you?  Come down to the stream.  We’ll cross over and fight there.”

 Before Eskkar could reply or change his mind, Nasir had already turned his back and jogged off, moving easily across the ground.  A crowd had gathered, and most of them followed, leaving Eskkar and a few of his friends behind.

 “You don’t have to fight him,” one said.  “He’s nearly two seasons older than you.”

 Eskkar didn’t care.  Just into his fourteenth season, he knew what it meant to ignore a challenge.  “I’ll fight him,” he said, the flush still hot on his face.  Nasir had pushed him down as easily as a woman, and treated him with just as much scorn.  Eskkar felt his honor at stake, and he wouldn’t take the insult, not in front of his friends.  Without hesitation, he followed Nasir and the others through the lengthening shadows, his fists clenched in anger.  Plenty of daylight remained for a good fight.

 Wading across the tiny stream, Eskkar then stepped another hundred paces to where Nasir waited, hands on his hips, surrounded by his taunting friends.  Eskkar hadn’t sought out this fight.  In fact, he’d purposely stayed away from the older boy.  Everyone knew Nasir’s reputation for quarreling, and Eskkar had never even considered challenging Nasir’s position.  Nevertheless, the fight had come to him, and now all Eskkar wanted was to smash the grin from Nasir’s face. 

 Eskkar had grown both taller and stronger in the last few months.  He’d wrestled many boys his own age, even some older, and had been beaten only once.  But those scuffles sprang from youthful exuberance and the desire to test one’s strength against another.  This time he faced the victor of more than a dozen fights, and Nasir’s disdainful insolence made this a personal attack on Eskkar’s honor, not just another boyish challenge.  For the first time in his young life, Eskkar felt the battle rage burning in his blood, the all-consuming anger that banished both fear and thought.   

 As he walked toward his waiting opponent, Eskkar unloosened his belt, and let it and the knife fall to the ground.  If he had drawn the knife, as was his right, then Nasir would have to meet the attack in kind.  Such death fights sometimes happened, but a killing fight held too many implications that even headstrong boys couldn’t ignore.  Both could die or be wounded, and the victor might even be killed afterward by the loser’s kin.  Bloody clan feuds had started for smaller insults.

 Nasir unbelted his own weapon and handed it to one of his followers.  By that time Eskkar had reached him, launching a clumsy blow that Nasir easily dodged – except Eskkar had already shifted his feet, grabbed Nasir’s arm and jerked him forward.  In the same motion, Eskkar extended his leg and sent Nasir tumbling to the earth.

 A ripple of groans from Nasir’s supporters sounded at the unexpected maneuver.  But Eskkar’s outnumbered friends drowned them out, cheering and jumping up and down at the sight of the local bully sprawling in the dirt.  Other camp idlers, observing the knot of boys and men, wandered over, attracted by the noise and always eager to see an interesting fight.

 Nasir’s eyes brimmed with rage at the ignominy.  He got up, taking his time, staring hard at his opponent, then began moving closer, feet sliding cautiously over the sand, hands extended.  “You’ll pay for that, boy.”

 Eskkar’s height and longer arms had the reach on Nasir, so he moved back, letting the older boy come to him, waiting until…

 Nasir dove at him, expecting to wrap his arms around Eskkar’s stomach and wrestle him to the ground.  But Eskkar slipped to the side and using the heel of his hand, landed a blow on Nasir’s ear, again sending him rolling on the grass.

 This time a wave of jeers greeted Nasir, who clearly hadn’t expected his younger opponent to be so resourceful.  A growing ring of pushing and shoving onlookers formed around the two boys, all the spectators excited to see the exchange of blows, and shouting encouragement and suggestions.  Most were youths their own age, though a few older warriors, their faces impassive as suited their status, joined the onlookers; even some women heading for the stream put down their jars and pots to join the ever-growing crowd watching the contest.  Everyone in the camp knew Nasir and his reputation as a bully; he’d bested many boys to achieve his position as leader of those soon-to-be warriors. 

 The two fighters ignored the crowd as they met head on.  Eskkar’s greater reach again let him land the first blow, but Nasir shook it off, dodged the second, and caught Eskkar’s arms.  The two boys wrestled, straining against each other, feet churning the loose sand, hands slipping while they struggled to find an advantage, each grunting with the effort.   Eskkar stood a good hand’s length taller, but his adversary equaled Eskkar’s weight, and his muscles were rock hard from riding and handling horses.

 With a quick move, Nasir twisted to the side, relaxing just enough to unbalance Eskkar, who found himself hurtling to the ground.  He tried to regain his feet, but Nasir stayed with him, their legs entangled.  A fist slammed against Eskkar’s cheek, knocking his head against the earth.  He struggled harder, but Nasir hung on, both boys gulping air from their exertions.  Each kept trying to land a stroke, but Nasir remained on top, using his body to keep Eskkar from rolling away.   

 Eskkar blocked one fist, then another, but the third blow caught him square on the forehead, slamming his head back.  Before he could react, Nasir thrust his body forward, his weight now fully on Eskkar’s chest, his leg pinning one of Eskkar’s arms.

 Another fist landed, brushing aside Eskkar’s arm and smashing into his mouth, and he felt the taste of blood gush between his lips.  Something crashed into Eskkar’s left eye, then another blow to the forehead stunned him, then another and another.  Dazed, Eskkar could do no more than try to cover his face as each blow landed. 

 With a shout of victory, Nasir raised his fist, ready to pound his opponent senseless.

 “Nasir!  Stop!”  The voice of command cut through all the shouting, silencing the vociferous crowd in a moment.  A broad-shouldered warrior moved through the crowd, striding past the ring of shouting young men, knocking them out of his way as if they were children.  “He’s finished, Nasir,” Ekur said.  “Let him be.”

 Nasir, breathing hard, heard the command in his father’s voice, and nodded.  The victor pushed himself upright, raising his fist in the air.  His friends cheered loudly, moving to his side, stepping over the prone loser who still hadn’t recovered his senses.  The crowd led Nasir away, back toward the stream, where he could rinse Eskkar’s blood from his hands and face while accepting their congratulations.

 Eskkar tried to get to his feet.  It took two attempts before he could even sit, and his eyes refused to focus.  When he lifted them, he saw his father, Hogarthak, standing over him.

 “All of you, go back to the camp,” Hogarthak said, ordering Eskkar’s friends away.  A tall man, Hogarthak reached down and pulled his son to his feet.  “Come with me,” he said, and strode off in the opposite direction.

 Eskkar, embarrassed to learn his father had witnessed not only the fight but his defeat, stumbled after him.  It took a few moments before he realized they were headed away from the camp.  “Where are we going?”  His voice sounded weak and childish, adding to his distress.  A hot tear dripped from his eye and Eskkar blinked hard to stop more from coming.

 Hogarthak didn’t answer, just lengthened his stride, forcing his son to keep pace.

 The fading light dimmed even more as they passed into a stand of trees that hugged the base of a small hill.  Eskkar wiped the blood from his swollen lips with the back of his hand.  His mouth stung, and he could feel the split in his lower lip.  Pain throbbed in his cheek, and his forehead hurt.  He had trouble focusing one eye, and tripped twice in the gathering darkness, cursing his clumsy feet and still-blurry vision.

 Hogarthak either didn’t hear the small sounds of his son’s distress or didn’t care about them.  Eskkar found himself following his father up the diminutive hillock, and in a few moments, the trees thinned out.  The ascent grew steeper, and near the top even Hogarthak had to lean forward to finish the climb to the crest.

 Breathing hard, Eskkar looked around.  The campfires of the Alur Meriki burned in their hundreds, each marking a small circle of flickering orange light in the growing darkness, each fire a beacon for a warrior and his family.

 Hogarthak found a boulder and sat.  The rock had just enough room for two, but Eskkar knew better than to sit in his father’s presence without permission.

 Eskkar tried to prepare for what would come.  His father would be angry.  Angry at the fighting, and even more angry at the fact that his son had lost. 

 “Sit, Eskkar.  Let me see your face.”

 Eskkar sat beside his father, feeling his legs tremble with weakness.  He lifted his fingers to his swollen face, and winced at the contact.

 Hogarthak turned toward his son.  Hogarthak leaned close in the fading light and examined the damage, taking his time. 

  “You’ll have a scar on your lip, boy,” Hogarthak said as he finished his examination.  His hand clasped Eskkar’s shoulder for a moment.  “Your mother won’t like that.  She wants you pretty until she finds you a wife.”

 The idea of marriage held no interest for Eskkar, though thoughts of the pleasures of the gods took up nearly every idle moment of his days and nights.  Lately he stared even harder at girls his own age and older, even some of their mothers.  And he’d noticed that several of the wives had smiled at him in passing, though both his parents had warned him about that danger, too. 

 “I don’t want a wife,” Eskkar said, his wounded pride and injured body leaving no place for thoughts of lust at the moment.  He ran a finger over his teeth, thankful that they all seemed to be intact, though one felt a little loose.

 “You’ll take a wife when you’re told to,” Hogarthak said calmly.  “When your mother and I arrange it, or, if you’re lucky, when Jamal finds someone for you.”

 Jamal led their clan of sixty plus warriors, and as their clan leader, had some influence over nearly every aspect of his followers’ lives.  Only the Great Chief of the Alur Meriki, Maskim-Xul, wielded more authority, but the Great Chief never interested himself in the petty affairs involved in governing such a small clan.

 “We’ll talk of marriage later,” Hogarthak said, dismissing the idea for the present.  “Now, it is time to talk about being a warrior.”

 Eskkar tried to clear his head, to keep pace with his father’s words.  “Father, I …”

 “Why did you fight him?  He’ll be a warrior in a few days, as soon as his clan rides out.”

 “He pushed me down. . . challenged me.”

 “Nasir is older than you, is stronger than you, and he carries more weight,” Hogarthak went on, ignoring his son’s words.  “If you hadn’t caught him by surprise with that first rush, he’d would’ve taken you down soon enough.  Instead you hurt his pride, the last thing he wanted to happen before the warrior rites.”

 “But what could I do?  My friends . . .”

 “You could have laughed when he knocked you down, told him he was too old and too strong to challenge.  He would have laughed with you, and helped you to your feet, another easy victory to add to his string.”

 Shocked at his father’s words, Eskkar could hardly speak.  “My friends would have thought me afraid to face him.”

 Hogarthak leaned close to his son and stared into his eyes.  “When he pushed you down, did you think you could win?  Tell me the truth, boy.  Forget your anger for a moment.”

 Eskkar closed his eyes, reliving the moment when he looked up at Nasir’s grinning face, trying to remember his thoughts.  “No, I thought he would beat me.”

 “So you fought a fight you knew you couldn’t win,” his father said.  “That’s not the warrior way.  A cunning warrior doesn’t fight a battle he knows he can’t win.   Suppose twenty dirt-eaters challenged you to a battle?  Would you fight them?”

 The thought of running from dirt-eaters had never entered Eskkar’s head.  “I’m not … I don’t know.”

 “I would laugh at them, and ride away,” Hogarthak said.  “That’s what I’d do.  Then I’d gather a few more warriors, four or five would be enough, and come back.  The sight of a handful of warriors coming to attack twenty dirt-eaters would break them before the first arrow landed in their midst.”

 The idea that his father might ride away from a challenge shocked Eskkar more than his own defeat.

 “I’ve another question for you, boy.  Suppose five seasons from now, when both you and Nasir are fully grown and seasoned warriors, suppose you have to fight him then?  I mean a real fight, to the death.  Who would win that one?”

 “Why, I don’t know.  I suppose …”

 “Nasir would win,” his father interrupted.  “He’d win because he’d remember this day.  He’d remember how you tricked him and threw him down while he was still smug in his strength.  So he’d be on his guard, take his time, and cut you down.”

 Hogarthak took a deep breath, then put his arm around Eskkar’s shoulder, a surprising and rare display of affection.  “That’s what you did, boy.  You gave away your strength today.  Nasir will never forget that.”  Hogarthak laughed, but the grim sound had no mirth in it.  “But suppose you’d conceded to his strength today.  Suppose you laughed it off, and let him think he’d bested you without a fight.  Now when you had to fight him to the death, who do you think would win?”

 Eskkar, still trying to keep up with his father’s thoughts, opened his mouth, but his father didn’t even give him time to speak.

 “This time, Nasir would remember the easy victory, the boy acknowledging the man.  He’d look at you and laugh.  Then you’d kill him, gut him as easily as your mother slices a sheep’s belly.”

 “But my honor was at stake, father.  He challenged me.”

 “A boy has no honor, not until he’s a warrior.  You keep forgetting that.  Only when you’re a warrior, and only when your honor demands it, only then do you fight.  Never start a needless fight, Eskkar.  Remember, every fight tells all those who watch something about your skills, tells them your strengths and weaknesses.  A good warrior studies the fights of others, learning from what they do, and remembering how they move and what tricks they have.  That’s why you should fight only when you must, and then fight to the death.”

 His father’s words churned through Eskkar’s head, adding to his misery.  His mouth and eye hurt more with every moment that passed.  And now his pride added to his anguish, stung by ideas and insights he’d never expected from his father.

 “I’ll remember… I’ll try to . . . I’m just sorry you had to watch me.  How did you know…”

 “Word was all over the camp.  Nasir has a big mouth.  He’ll be a loud-talker as a warrior.  He was boasting of what he planned to do to you.”  Hogarthak shook his head.  “Ekur must know his son.  That’s why he sent word to me about the fight.”

 Once again Eskkar felt the shock of his father’s words.  A loud talker meant one who boasted of his fighting skills, and usually wound up getting himself killed because of his pride and stupidity. 

  “Tomorrow, walk by Nasir’s tent,” Hogarthak said.  “And don’t show surprise if you see his face all bruised.  Ekur was shamed by his son tonight, and I’m sure he’ll take it out on Nasir.  First by how easily you threw Nasir down, and then by the fact that Nasir would have beaten you to death if Ekur hadn’t stopped it.  Then I would have killed Nasir.”

 His father’s calm words shocked Eskkar more than any outburst. 

 Hogarthak ignored the surprise showing on his son’s face.  “I would have waited a few weeks, until Nasir returned from his first raid.  Then I would have insulted him, and made him grovel in the dirt or take the challenge.  After he was dead, I might have to kill Ekur as well.  All because you were too proud to think like a warrior.”

 Stunned into silence by the chain of events his actions might have launched, Eskkar didn’t know what to answer.  He lowered his head in shame, thinking about what disaster he might have brought on his father and his family.

 Hogarthak pointed to the fires burning brighter in the night.  “Look, Eskkar, what do you see?”

 “I see the campfires of the Hawk Clan, all the clans.  I see the horse herds and …”

 “What I see, my son, are men.  Just men, trying to survive in a harsh world that permits few mistakes.  Some men are strong, some are weak.  Some beat their women, some treat them honorably.  Most of them never use their wits for anything but finding their horse or their supper.  They avoid trouble, if they’re lucky.  Most of them do as they’re told, never think about tomorrow or the next day or the next year.  If you want to be a leader of warriors, then you must learn to think and see things differently from the rest.  Do you think Jamal or Maskim-Xul spend their days worrying about their honor?  Or about how brave everyone thinks they are?  Or how many horses and slaves and women they have?  Well, do you?”

 Hanging his head, Eskkar thought about Jamal, about how wise he seemed, how capable.  Everyone regarded him as a just leader who cared for his people.  “No, father, I suppose they don’t think of such things.”

 “Good.  At least there’s hope for you, if you ever learn to use your wits instead of your back.  Since you were old enough to stand, I’ve tried to teach you something each day, something that might keep you alive when you face your true enemies.  Don’t make me think I’ve wasted all that effort.  Learn to think more and fight less.  You’ll live longer, and maybe rise in honor.”  He stood.  “Time to get back to the campfire.  Your mother will be angry at both of us for staying away so late.”

 Eskkar got to his feet, then felt a wave of dizziness pass over him.  His father had to help him down the steep hill, holding his arm until they passed through the trees. 

 “You’ll make a fine warrior some day, Eskkar,” Hogarthak said, as they walked side by side.  “But only when you learn to think first, before you fight.  A real warrior fights best when his blood runs cold, not when it boils up like stew in a pot.  Pick your battles, boy, and use your wits, if the gods gave you any.  If you can do that, you may even become a clan leader some day.”

 They crossed the stream and approached the campfires, Eskkar thinking hard about his father words.  Not every warrior spent as much time teaching his son the warrior skills.  Many fathers preferred to spend their time with their horses, their women, or even their wineskins.  Suddenly Eskkar appreciated what his father had given him. 

 “Go on ahead, boy.  Have your mother tend your face.  Tell her I’ll be along later.”

 For the first time in his life, Eskkar understood his father, grasped his true meaning without being told.  His father was letting him go to the women alone.  Without Hogarthak’s presence, Eskkar’s mother and sister could tend to his bruises and his wounded pride, and he wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of his father.  He’d always considered his father a brave man and a skilled warrior, but it never occurred to Eskkar that his father possessed any particular wisdom.  Now that Eskkar thought about it, of course Jamal would only appoint someone with wisdom as his subcommander; even the slowest-witted warrior in the clan could comprehend that. 

 By the time Eskkar worked this out, Hogarthak had nearly disappeared into the darkness, heading toward the horse herd.  He would eat a cold meal very late tonight, or not at all, to allow his son’s pride to recover.

 “Father, thank you for …”

 The words trailed off into the night.  If Hogarthak heard them, his shadowy silhouette gave no sign before it vanished.  Eskkar stood alone for a moment, trying to sort out these new concepts.  Finally he trudged back to his campfire, where the women would tend what little remained of his wounded pride as much as his cut lip and bruised face. 

Want to read about Eskkar’s first real fight?  I’ll be adding another chapter or two in the next few weeks.

Contact the author, and let him know what you thought of the story. Email barone@sambarone.com.