Chapter Thirty four - Valley of the Lions

A beastly head stared at him. From deep sockets dark eyes glowed like burning coal. Black fur grew wildly over the animal’s thick boned head, the skin underneath covered in grime. Its strong jaws hung open slightly, spittle slipping out of the rows of large teeth.

Kitun stared back. A droplet of sweat dripped down from a greasy lock of black hair curling over his forehead. The droplet made the beast waver in circles and Kitun realized he was staring at himself in a pool of blood. He swallowed uneasily, blinking his painful eyes. Where was he? He felt his fingers digging in moist dirt.

A faint screaming entered his ears. His face hovered over the blood mirror, hands and knees on the ground. He saw himself. His hairy chest and broad shoulders were visible in the water. He was naked. Where are my clothes?

His ears were ringing. You need to get up Kitun. Get up before you feel the speartip dig into your back. He gritted his teeth and tried to push himself up, but his strength seemed gone. Excruciatingly slowly he rose, one knee rising. Distant screams, sounds of clashing bronze. The scent of fire and death.

He was breathing heavily as he finally looked up.

Through his blurred vision he could see a figure before him. Kitun raised his chin. At least He would die with pride.

But the killing blow never came. The figure waited until Kitun’s broad shoulders rose further and the mist in his hazy mind gradually evaporated.

A thin, elongated head stared at him. The man’s squinting eyes were wary and cautious, keeping his distance.

Kitun recognized him, but by the Gods he could not remember his name. One of his though. He nodded. One of his.

His broad hairy chest heaved up and down, heart pounding hard within. He was exhausted. It felt like a herd of aurochs had stampeded over him. Slowly he scanned his surroundings.

Armoured warriors stood around, their backs towards him and focus elsewhere with shields interlocked. A few were crouched down over corpses, cutting off the ears of the dead. The ground was cold, yet he felt the bright rays of the sun on his exposed skin. The sky was deep blue and the temperature was rapidly increasing. Early morning Kitun assumed. His last memories were charging down into the valley at dusk. Then fragments of blood and bestial murder.

His mouth tasted like ash and metal. His ears twitched as he picked up the sounds of fighting. Mostly screaming of dying men. He glanced around him, his warriors surrounding him on all sides. Their banners were stood tall and waved gently in the grainy Uruk wind. Red fabric, golden stars.

On the slopes of the surrounding hills he saw lions stalking amongst the boulders, patiently waiting amongst a black-grey carpet of crows and vultures.

‘Did we win?’ Kitun asked with a mouth parched so dry it hurt to speak.

The slender face grinned. ‘We did well, but its not over yet. T’was a long night my lord, nothing seemed to satiate your bloodlust. Where you went we followed.’

The man speaking to him was tall, almost as tall as Kitun, though notably more slender. He wore an indented breastplate, a red cloak and a triple row of ears hung from his neck, laced on gold-thread. His skin was tanned, his eyes were fiercely green, and strands red hair were visible under his helmet.

Finally Kitun remembered the name of the man before him; Kalam Twelve-toes, one of his long known braves.

‘Give me a situation report.’ Kitun demanded as he quickly inspected himself.

A long wound had split the skin of his hairy forearm, several cuts on his exposed leg. He quickly thanked the Goddess when he saw his broad member dangling unscathed from a wild dark bush of hair.

Twelve-toes didn't seemed concerned by his Lord’s nakedness and handed over a waterskin.

‘My Lord, we have tormented the Isines with a nightmare that lasted until dawn. First light shows us to be in control of their camps. The surviving Isines driven to the edges - and even into the lion-infested hills around.’

Kitun noticed his morningstar still embedded in a nearby Isine corpse, the heavy bronze spiked mace still stuck in the dead man’s helmet and skull. He pulled it out with a crack.

His breastplate lay nearby, and he ordered his men to re-fasten it to his body.

Someone handed over his helmet and he felt the familiar weight rest on his head. His shield was given to him by a limping servant. With the return to his weapons and armour; his tools for war, he felt a hint of anger. It was somewhere deep within him, but it was a small ember compared to the enraged furnace that had burned earlier.

‘You said almost over, so let us finish it.’

‘Your memory is truly lost, Royal Bull.’ Kalam grinned. ‘There is only one you still need to face. This way my lord.’

The tall, tanned warrior led the way through the overrun campsites. Collapsed tents, earless corpses, overturned carts and wagons. Scattered around were piles of charred wood, much of it still smoking, some still burning; the penetrating scent of fire waking up the last strands of vagueness from Kitun’s mind.

His eyes were sharp, scanning, but only seeing his red clothed men occupy the grounds. The limited, almost casual sounds of fighting and killing softened. The density of the bodies increased, stiff limbs crossed over the flesh of their comrades; A last stand. Mostly Isines, but a few red-clothed bodies lay amongst them.

Stepping over a corpse; a remnant of air wheezing out of the dead lungs, Kitun continued. He was followed by a small armoured group of spear-carriers. Twelve-toes brought him to a great central tent, intact and untouched by flames. It was surrounded by hastily erected barricades manned by arrow-riddled corpses. Kitun imagined the joy his men must have felt in this nightly hunt, the easy slaughter amongst the panicked sheep. The King shook his head. Isines…

He spat and entered through the tent flap. Inside were more Uruk warriors, halting their frantic looting of chests and possessions and bowing their heads to Kitun. Deeper within the tent was a bed covered in a sheep’s skin, the wool stained by the blood of its occupant. An old man lay there, one red hand pressed to his side. His weathered, hairless face was a grimace. Atop his white hair rested a golden circlet.

Dead? Kitun wondered, but then the figure stirred slightly.

‘Is that the King?’ A soft, pain-tormented voice asked. Squinted eyes glistened towards Kitun.

‘It is.’ He replied, halting besides the woolen bed.

‘Lower your weapon, Lord of Uruk, and shake my hand. Let us speak like men, instead of quarrelling like beasts.’

Yet a beast is what I am, Kitun thought, but he allowed the wounded Isine to push himself up slightly and offer his old hand, which Kitun gripped gently. He’ll be at death’s gates at noon without a healer.

They looked into each other’s eyes. Kitun read fear, and courage.

‘I am King Kalbi of Isin.’

‘I know who you are.’

‘Please…’ Old Kalbi groaned. ‘Forgive us.’

‘You will waste your last breath’s begging?’

‘Not for me.’ Kalbi spat, a hint of tired anger in his voice. ‘For the sake of my people and the fate of my city. Do not give it the fate of Larsa. It was I that caused this hardship. I was misguided by words of easy victory, lured south with promises of gold and lies about strength in numbers, but I have only led my people into a slaughter. It is not their fault…’

‘There are still men fighting under your banner, at the edges, in the foothills. Give the command for them to surrender.’

‘But they are not here, and my voice is weak.’ Kalbi replied.

‘Just give the command.’ Kitun sighed. ‘I am many things, but no one in this world or the next will call me a liar. Your men will be told to surrender by your command, and it is up to them to believe or to face our blades.’

Kalbi leaned back. ‘can you give any assurances to the safety of my men?’

‘That is Eneduanna’s decision to make.’ Kitun replied coldly.

‘Forgive us. I surrender, my men I order to surrender.’ Kalbi said softly, the bitter words not more than a whisper.

‘Good. Now make your peace, the Revered one demanded your head. I will allow you to keep your crown until the last. You will die a King....’

***

The Isines bowed. They were still in great numbers, but they had been corralled into killing grounds at the edges of the valley where steep rocksides blocked escape.

Other, smaller groups descended from the hills, where, after a night’s fighting against the men of Uruk, they had been beset by the cats. Exhausted, losing more kin, and seeing their brothers in arms kneeling and prostrating themselves, they joined the surrender. Their shields were painted with Dogs and Bees, and were placed on the ground, alongside their spears and bows. Their proud, torn banners were lowered last, and then they awaited their fate with bowed head.

***

Kitun walked through the lines of kneeling prisoners. Inspecting them, watching for signs of treachery, or worse; disease. He found no such things. The Isines were utterly broken. Despite their casualties, they still outnumbered the smaller Uruk force, but the Isine will to fight was gone. Exhausted men, tormented, frightened and far from home. They feared the men of Uruk, they feared the great black bearded brute that slowly moved amongst them. The bull.

They knew the beast better than the King himself, having endured its bellows every hour of the night. Now the Bull walked past them like a man, calm and composed, but every time he passed their bows deepened until they could taste the blood enriched soil in their mouths.

Kitun halted at a trembling warrior, placing his large rough-skinned hand on the man’s scalp. He turned the head, checking the jaws. He pushed a filthy finger in the man’s mouth, seeing the teeth.

‘Too much honey.’ he muttered, before taking a deep breath.

‘Your King is dead. I am your new King.’ Kitun proclaimed to the prisoners. ‘I am Lord of Isin. Your King begged me to show mercy to you and your city, to your villages and hamlets, to the entire land of Isin. Today I will spare you. The Revered one demands you enter her service. From this day you will fight for the banner of the High-Priestess. She is your Goddess and you will give your lives to her.’

The kneeling prisoners had their eyes fixed to the dirt but Kitun knew their ears were listening attentively. ‘As for your lands, it is not my decision to give clemency. If it were up to me we will proceed to your city and only minimal grievances will be settled. However, Eneduanna decides, and if she decides cruelty, you are expected to deal out that cruelty.’

The Isines were silent, meek like lambs. Kitun gnashed his teeth. ‘Say her name, Eneduanna!’

From behind him the Uruk warriors started the familiar chant.

‘Join your voices to our prayer or by the Goddess I will swear none of you leaves this valley alive.’ Kitun placed his morningstar atop the head of one prisoner. Piss streamed down the man’s legs as he started to speak Eneduanna’s name.

‘Excellent. Louder, you Isine dogs. Louder! Shé is listening, let her hear your voices!’ Kitun grinned. Behind his eyes he felt the strain of exhaustion, but there was no time to waste.

Eneduanna. Eneduanna. Eneduanna.

‘Up, soldiers, we march to war!’ Kitun averted his sight from their stammered incantation. Weakness disgusted him, and these conquered warriors were showing vulnerability like a wounded stag showed its lame leg to hungry wolves. Ripe for the slaughter, but he kept them. At the very least they could dig latrines and soak up arrow-volleys. ‘Subur Ganbar’ Kitun named them. Slave soldiers.

His own were a better sight; Strong, tall warriors. Beards black as tar, men joyed with the marks of war they had received. Weapons drenched in Isine blood they watched their King with pride.

‘Come, brothers, we return to Uruk!’ The valley was filled with clamoring, of screams and of clattering bronze weapons. Around them, lionpacks roared with impatience. The birds had already flocked up, circling over their heads like a black cloud. Their cackling unnerved Kitun. A feast was about to commence and he wanted no part of it.

His warriors picked up a number of downed Isine soldiers to placate the lions, and up in the hills they went to pay passage with the dead, leaving behind a burned encampment, hastily looted and inhabited by corpses, the first beasts stalking inside at the edges. Down the birds swooped amidst a cacaphony of screeches and falling feathers and Kitun mercifully filled his ears with wax.