Their journey was interrupted not by the river, but by men. Bandits, desperate and armed with stone-tipped spears, swarmed from the reed beds in a dozen small canoes. The boatmen shouted in panic, reaching for their own crude weapons.
Lulal froze, his mind of design and structure useless against this chaotic violence.
Enki did not panic. His eyes, old and calm, processed the scene in an instant. Threat assessment: twelve hostiles. Primary objective: disable mobility.
"Lulal," Enki said, his voice unnervingly calm. "The coil of rope. Now." He pointed to the steering oar at the stern, a massive piece of timber. "Lash it fast, hard to port."
While Lulal, acting on pure instinct, scrambled to obey, Enki moved to the stacks of trade goods—heavy pottery jars of oil. He didn't throw them. He placed them strategically at the starboard rail, where the bandits' canoes were closing in. As the first grappling hook thudded onto the deck, Enki took a burning brand from the cooking fire.
"The rope, Lulal!" he commanded.
With a final heave, Lulal secured the oar. The barge, its steering locked, began a slow, powerful turn into the bandits. The current, now working with the turned vessel, slammed it broadside into the fragile canoes, splintering them.
As the bandits floundered in the water, Enki methodically kicked the oil jars over the side. Thick, slick liquid spread over the surface. He looked at the flailing men, then at the firebrand in his hand. He saw the easy, horrific solution. Instead, he threw the brand into the water away from the oil, where it died with a hiss.
"Retrieve their weapons," Enki told the stunned boatmen. "Leave them the river. A man who has lost his boat and his spear is no longer a threat. He is a lesson."
Lulal stood panting, staring at Enki as if seeing him for the first time. This was not just a metalsmith. This was a strategist, a commander who could win a battle without a single death. The awe in his eyes was now tinged with something else: a dawning, absolute devotion.