Quest for Honour by Sam Barone

a few moments, Eskkar was slapping Hathor on the back, practically pulling him down from the horse.
    “You did it, I see, Captain.” Hathor glanced around at the ruined campsite, debris still scattered everywhere. The bodies had been dragged away from the stream, and the archers had pillaged every item the Sumerians left behind, searching for anything of value and adding to the litter that now covered the ground.
    “Yes, we arrived just in time. Another mile and we’d have been too late. As it was, we hit them at sunrise.” He looked at Hathor’s weary riders. “There’s food for your men, and a stream to water your horses. And a dozen water sacks to carry with you, if you want to carry them.”
    “Yes, we’ll take them. They won’t slow us down much before they’re gone.”
    Eskkar nodded. “The Sumerians have been running since dawn, with no food or water. Most abandoned their weapons. They can’t have covered much ground on foot.”
    Hathor understood. Eskkar always did everything as fast as he could drive his men.
    “And, Hathor, we were right. It is King Eridu of Sumer that we’re fighting. Apparently, he raised up this army to capture the border. He got away before we could stop him . . . probably halfway to Sumer by now.”
    Hathor nodded. That was Eskkar’s way of telling him to be careful. If the Sumerians linked up with their horsemen, they would still be a formidable force.
    The riders stuffed stale Sumerian bread into their mouths as fast as they could swallow, while they watered their horses. As Hathor regrouped his troop, Alexar and two of his men came over. They carriedten of the short bows that could be used from horseback, and as many quivers.
    “In case you need them, Hathor,” he said. “The Sumerians left them behind.”
    The brief rest, coupled with food and water, helped the men more than the horses, but Hathor didn’t worry about that. The fleeing enemy couldn’t be far ahead, and the weary horses still had at least that much distance in them.
    They rode out at a canter, following the broad track made by the fleeing Sumerian soldiers, the ground littered here and there with discarded weapons, water skins, food, sandals, and even clothing. The horsemen had gone less than a mile when they came upon three wounded men, too injured or exhausted to run any further. Hathor’s new bowmen finished them off, scarcely slowing down in the process.
    That happened again and again. Some of the wounded pretended to be dead, but every Sumerian received an arrow or two, just to make sure. The Akkadians would collect the shafts on the way back.
    The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the temperature grew hotter as well. The numbers of wounded Sumerians grew fewer. Those strong enough to get this far would not have been injured. But the lack of water would be taking its toll, slowing them down and weakening their limbs. A glance up at the sun showed midday would soon be upon them.
    Hathor crested a hill and saw a large group of Sumerians ahead. Hathor’s men started to cheer.
    “Silence! Halt! Not the slightest noise.” Hathor scanned the low hills ahead of him. About eighty or ninety men were grouped together. Some were already running, but most stood their ground. Then he understood.
    “Give me your bow,” he ordered the nearest horsemen carrying one of the captured weapons. Snatching the short weapon from the man’s hands, Hathor raised it up over his head and waved it back and forth. “The rest of you with bows, do the same.”
    After a few moments, one of the Sumerians returned the gesture. Hathor lowered the bow. “We’ll walk the horses toward them. With luck, they’ll think we’re their own cavalry. Try to look as tired as they are, and keep your eyes on the ground. And bunch up. We don’t want to look like an attack line.”
    They started down the hill, plodding along. It wasn’t as foolish a trick as it appeared. His men dressed the same and rode the same kinds of horsesas the