I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 10

  He considered following the hoof tracks, but he didn’t know how far he would have to walk – and he did not want to mount the horses just yet. Not until he fed them once or twice, and not around the dead, bloody bodies of their former masters.

  The ground was hard and the prints were weak. The wind and the rain would soon erase any trace of where the pale-haired strangers had come from. Early rains almost always caused floods, and Shimshon did not want to be stuck in the open.

  He did a quick job of burying the men under some grass and dirt, just so that if anyone came looking for them, the corpses would not be easy to spot. The horses did not fight him as he took their reins. He briefly led them in the wrong direction, and when he reached a patch of dark, broken rock that left no prints, he circled back toward the mountain.

  Fat drops hit his back and neck. The rain came down in a quick, wild patter, soaking his tunic through, plastering his fiery locks to his skull. The horses lowered their heads and plodded on, their dirt-coated bodies streaked with chalky lines of wetness. The air turned heavy, milky, difficult to breathe.

  Carefully, Shimshon worked his way back to the hidden gully. He brought back great loot, pride in his chest, and endless questions in his mind. He hadn’t caught any game, but the desire to kill again was quenched in his heart. He didn’t have to bother with hunting in any case. The strangers had flint, blankets, dried meat and fruit, even hard cheese. A decent bargain.

  The rain stopped, blown away by a noisy gust, leaving behind a mulchy, chilly desert. The narrow passage into the canyon was already sunk in the late evening murk as he guided the two beasts deeper in, the stone slick with the torrential runoff. The bottom of the channel was ankle-deep in muddy water.

  For the second time that day, Shimshon heard voices.

  He drew one of the gray swords.

  Whispers.

  It was hard to judge who uttered the words, but he knew it wasn’t just the prophet and the Plishtit.

  Not a soul for so long, and now all this.

  There was no urgency to the spoken tone, no fear or panic. Normal conversation.

  Gripping the gray sword, he came around the corner carefully and spotted the wagon pushed against the recess in the cliff, well hidden from view by the tall bulrushes, just as he had instructed. Dlila and Iermiah sat on a patch of dry ground by the little creek.

  As he’d expected, they weren’t alone.

  Several men and women raised their heads when they finally heard the hoofs of his beasts. Shimshon tried to keep his emotions still. However, even in the tricky twilight, there was no mistaking who these other strangers were.

  Israelites.

  CHAPTER TET-ZAYIN

  IT IS THE COLOR OF BLOOD AND SUNSET

  Shimshon released the reins and brought the sword up.

  Iermiah saw him and jumped to his feet. “No! It is all right. These folks are friends.”

  Shimshon stepped closer, wary, keeping his eyes on the strangers. “I know my friends.”

  Dlila also rose. She looked worried. Must be the closeness to her nation’s foes. But there was something else in her eyes. Relief that he had returned? Joy? A real longing, even though he had been away only a short time?

  The three strangers, two men and one woman, stood up as well, arms raised in pacifying gestures, eyes big and full of fear. “Please, Master, we mean no harm. It is as the prophet says,” the oldest one spoke, his words measured.

  Dlila’s face suddenly turned blank. She took an involuntary step back from the bald man.

  Shimshon bit off a curse. He did not fail to notice Dlila’s sudden distress—or that she might have just lost all trust in him.

  I should have told her.

  But he had been swept up in his desire to solve the mystery of the missing birds, and then his burned city, and the masked riders, and now this. They had shared a deep, intimate moment on the bench that day, and that was gone now.

  Shimshon lowered his blade, but he was still edgy, still nervous from his earlier encounter with those soldiers. “Who are you?”

  The elder bowed. “Asher Ben Yigal Ben Nadav of Shevet Reuven. This is my wife, Naama, and my son Hanokh.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The father swallowed. He frowned. He hesitated. “We fled the enemy army. We fled the serpent.”

  Shimshon felt as if he was inside the Tower of Bavel again, looking at the ageless librarian, feeling the knot in his stomach go searing hot.

  The serpent…

  He had kept that word buried deep in his soul, and now…

  The omens were all true. The wise men of Bavel had spoken true. There was sudden weight pressing on his chest.

  Dlila looked terrified.

  Shimshon ignored the pointed look from the prophet.

  “Go on.”

  Dignified, if frightened, until a moment ago, Asher lost his composure. The calm man suddenly became exhausted, defeated, distraught, his face lined with hunger and exhaustion. There was grime and dried blood on his clothes, his collar torn. His shoulders slumped.

  “We hail from Kfar Nirim. Maybe three weeks ago, Hanokh saw mounted men on the ridge above our village, armed with spears and swords. They looked like no other army we had seen before. They weren’t the servants of King Tobiah, or the raiders from Moav, or even the soldiers of Iehuda. My son brought the sheep in, and when he informed me, I knew there was going to be trouble.”

  Shimshon glanced at the younger man. He wanted to berate him for not fighting the invaders, but then he remembered the charred ruins of Rabba, the great and proud city of his kingdom, destroyed. Who would dare stand up to such an enemy?

  Rabba wasn’t destroyed by men with gray swords, his soul whispered.

  Shimshon said nothing. He wanted to hear everything from these strangers. The dead soldiers with their masks couldn’t share any truths, but these Israelites might. But should he trust or believe them? Certainly not, they were his nation’s enemy, but he still felt he had to listen to every word.

  Shimshon pointed with his sword.

  “Please,” Iermiah said. “There is no need for anger.”

  “Asher, go on.”

  The father sat back down on a rock and continued. “We fled. Others stayed and prayed for God to intervene. Luckily for me and my family, the enemy did not attack. We thought they might leave us be, that God might save us. We watched our home from the hills. Then, on the morrow, a great beast attacked.”

  Shimshon swallowed.

  “A beast with many wings and heads swept over the village. It was then the carnage started. Our fighters stood no chance. We ran away as far as we could, and sought shelter in narrow places, where that unholy beast could not reach us.”

  “God be merciful,” the wife whispered.

  Whose god? Shimshon wondered.

  “God save us,” Asher intoned.

  Shimshon remembered his earlier encounter with the riders. He should pray. He should thank Melek for his intervention. But now that his blood had cooled, his gratitude had hardened back into a shell of old doubts. With Rabba gone, his faith felt like an insect trapped in sap.

  The world I have known...is gone.

  The father cleared his throat. “After a few days, when he saw no one else, we though the danger had passed, so we went back. Kfar Nirim was destroyed. Not a single house was left standing. We found no animals and no bodies, but we knew that whoever had stayed behind had been killed. No one else survived.”

  Asher slumped ever further. “We went to Sde Rimon, only to find it in ruins, too. Every town we came upon had been obliterated. All of them. The tribes of Reuven and Gad are gone. No more.” He took a deep breath. “Since, we traveled at night through gullies, avoiding open ground, until we stumbled here, where we found shelter and some water. There are more of us, hiding further down the stream. Two dozen. We just came here to get some of the rushes for food and fire.” His finger brushed one of the cattails.

  Not that long ago, Shimshon wou
ld have exalted at the news of the destruction of the two tribes. His nation had fought with the people of Reuven for a long time. Now that they had been killed to the last, it seemed, there was only a bitter taste of uncertainty in his mouth. And maybe fear, but he didn’t want to admit that just yet.

  Fear is for ordinary people.

  “Tell us more of this serpent,” Iermiah asked.

  Asher glanced at his son. Hanokh opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. “It has many wings and many heads. And it is the color of blood and sunset.”

  Shimshon watched the prophet carefully. “Have you seen it since?”

  The son shook his head.

  “God save us,” Naama muttered again.

  “I want to talk to the rest of your group,” Shimshon said, trying to keep his mind clear. There was something pressing deep inside his chest, but he did not want to admit. A question. It had been shadowing him since the black ruins of Rabba, like a crow flapping after a starved animal, biding its time. It had all the time it needed, the crow.

  I will not succumb to childish worries. I will not succumb to fear.

  Asher pointed weakly. The canyon became a black tunnel only a few steps away, cloaked in nighttime darkness. “We can take you there.”

  Shimshon raised the sword. “You will take me there. Your wife and son will stay here.”

  Hanokh looked like he wanted to argue, but then his eyes scanned Shimshon’s bulk, his hair, and the great length of the gray sword, and he withered. Naama looked afraid. Surprisingly, Dlila offered her a weak, sympathetic smile. Shimshon did not want to contemplate her thoughts. She must have her own share of doubts and questions. But he could not talk to her now. He could not let himself be distracted by a woman.

  Rami stepped closer, his bald head strangely luminous in the settling dark. “So many questions. Sometimes, you learn more by asking the questions rather than listening to the answers. And what have you done, my fierce Ammonite?”

  Shimshon saw Asher wince. But he ignored it. “I stumbled upon some riders. Never saw their kind before. They did not look overly friendly, so I slew them.”

  “Understandable,” the prophet said. Shimshon could swear there was a trace of familiar mockery in his voice, but in the twilight, the man’s features were a mystery of lines. Shimshon thought he looked worried, tense. That worried Shimshon more.

  “What is that blade?” Rami prodded.

  “A mysterious alloy,” Shimshon said, trying to keep his fascination at bay, recalling how easily it had cleaved his own bronze sword. “Take care of the horses. There’s food in the saddle bags, and more weapons.” He lowered his voice. “Arm yourself, and do not let the boy touch anything.”

  The prophet did not argue. He bobbed his head in agreement.

  “We need fire. It’s cold and wet,” Hanokh suggested.

  “No fire,” Shimshon warned. “Asher, lead the way.”

  The father nodded and left the campsite, his feet splashing in the water. With his right hand brushing the wall of the ravine, he followed the stream.

  They walked without speaking, their senses tuned to the little sounds of the narrow passage. The odd gurgle of water, the buzz of insects, the sigh of wind caressing the worn red rock. But no howl of coyotes, no hoot of owls. Anything bigger than a fly had vanished.

  Could be just rain.

  Asher was breathing loudly, his sandals smacking and hissing against the wet, stony ground. Shimshon tried to keep his own steps quiet, holding back, in case the Israelite suddenly tried to attack him. In the deepening night, he couldn’t see people’s intentions.

  Soon enough, he heard new voices, too loud for their own good. He saw the ripple of orange reflected on the striated canyon walls. Fire. Fools, Melek take them.

  Asher seemed to have found courage with that bloom of light in front of him. His pace quickened. “Are you a great warrior?”

  “Slow down.” Shimshon decided to ask questions of his own instead. “So, Hanokh is your only son?”

  “I had five children. They all died of the plague.” The man said no more.

  As they approached the other camp site, Shimshon averted his eyes so he would not be blinded by the glow of the fire. He stared at the shadows but saw no danger there. A miserable lot of people were huddled around the small blaze, their worried faces shrouded in eerie colors. They looked up when they heard Asher, their features transforming from thoughtful scowls to alarmed glares.

  “Melek be praised, it is you, Master!” one of their lot said, maybe too loudly, rising and throwing the blanket off his shoulders.

  Shimshon stared at the man, feeling wary.

  “Master! I am Ittai, a scout. I served in your army.”

  An Ammonite? Asher had said nothing about him. Shimshon did not recognize him.

  If he comes from Rabba…

  There was a ripple of murmurs among the seated folk. Shimshon kept his eyes on their arms, but they did not seem to have any weapons. Not even the soldier who professed to be a warrior in King Tobiah’s ranks.

  “Who is that?” someone asked in a low tone.

  “The king’s nephew himself. We are saved!” Ittai was almost cheerful.

  “Keep quiet,” Shimshon snapped. “And kill that fire now.”

  The scout went from happy to sour in a heartbeat. “Master, the women were cold and we didn’t have any hot food—”

  “Better that than dead,” he cut off the would-be warrior. “There is too much light, too much smoke.”

  Ittai looked at his companions. They spared him no sympathy. His vague expression plunged into darkness as the Israelites piled dirt on the flames.

  “Leave a single ember burning,” Shimshon commanded.

  The narrow gully became a black stripe of fear. Shimshon could hear people hissing and shivering. Cowards. No one spoke while they became accustomed to the deepening night. The weak bloom of red from the cinder was enough for him to see their silhouettes, their teeth, and the white of their eyes. The fools were staring wide, as if they were afraid the night might devour them.

  Shimshon glanced in the scout’s direction. “And what are you doing here, soldier? Why are you not fighting with the king?”

  Silence. Hesitation. Ragged breaths.

  “Speak to me, soldier.”

  “Master, the king is dead. Everyone is dead. Only a few of us survived. I was in the fields, outside the city, when the enemy attacked, when that beast swooped over Rabba. It was Lotan, the serpent of the sea.”

  The serpent…

  “It was not. It was punishment from Elohim,” one of the Israelites said, wiping his hands on his robe.

  “God sent the beast—”

  “Enough. Be quiet, all of you.” Shimshon did not want them to fight. The last thing he needed was even more animosity and mistrust from these already mistrustful people. Nothing bred bad feelings faster than insults thrown against the honor of someone’s tribe, family, or god. That could spin out of control all too easily. He needed them meek, frightened, and silent.

  He pondered the soldier’s words over and over.

  The king is dead. Everyone is dead.

  Shimshon let that last, difficult question finally reach his lips. Smoke and the sharp smell of ashes filled the narrow space. “And my mother?”

  Ittai averted his eyes, the rest of his face a dark mask. “I...we do not know, sir.”

  So, I am now without family, without the king, without a land. Ammon was a ruined kingdom, and Shimshon was an orphan, in every sense. Do I succumb to fear? Do I succumb to sadness?

  No.

  There was a reason why Melek had intervened and sent him east. There was a reason why he had gone to the Tower of Bavel and spoken to the wise men.

  No, not Melek. Malakhim, messengers of the Hebrew God, Iermiah’s words reverberated in his head. Where is Melek? Why did he not stop this? His idols and temples were ruined. Would he ever come back to Ammon? Did Melek live, or had the great serpent defeated him?

>   Is that the reason why my heart feels empty of faith?

  There were a thousand fresh questions swirling through Shimshon’s head. A thousand emotions. But he only let one rise to the surface.

  Thirst for revenge.

  Tariav had destroyed his land. In turn, Shimshon would destroy the dragon and whoever had summoned it.

  CHAPTER YOD-HET

  YOU WILL NOT LIKE MY WORDS

  In the morning, there was rain. The sky had finally made good on its promise.

  Shimshon opened his eyes. The world was a ribbon of gray hemmed in by red cliffs. He raised his head, slowly checking the camp site. Iermiah was keeping guard, doing his best. But then, there was only one sensible way into the narrow passage and Shimshon trusted the pack animals to warn him. For now, there was no sign of danger.

  Dlila was curled at his side, a warm, pleasant presence snuggled against his chest. He could feel her even through several layers of cloth and for the thousandth time, he was aroused. His body throbbed with lust. After Bavel, he hadn’t slept with any woman, visited no brothel. A shard of guilt was lodged in his heart, like a thorn, itchy and festering. It was a strange feeling, guilt.

  Asher and his kin slept on the other side of the wagon. It had been too late for him to drag Dlila and Iermiah to the other encampment. That would have also meant abandoning the wagon and its useful load of tools and supplies because it could not squeeze through the narrow passage. Most importantly, he did not trust the Israelites, so he had forced Asher to return with him, almost as a hostage. If there was danger, Shimshon could only focus on fighting the enemy, not worry about foes at his back.

  Shimshon sat up, his fingers touching the cold length of gray metal at his side. Dlila stirred, lips smacking as she dreamed.

  The rain pattered, fat, thick drops that left smears on the canyon walls like bird droppings. Rami moved under a narrow ledge to keep dry. The horses, the mule, and the donkey weren’t so lucky.

  Hanokh started, his dreams probably less pleasant than Dlila’s. Soon, the whole family was awake. They avoided looking at Shimshon.