I Shall Slay the Dragon! Read online

  If anyone asked, he would say they were just traders returning from the far east.

  A strange tingle gripped Shimshon as they left Iehuda. There wasn’t much to tell one land from another, just an old, abandoned donkey mill that had not been used in a decade. But he sensed something the moment they passed the rickety building. He suddenly felt exposed.

  He looked up. The sky held danger once again.

  Shimshon glanced toward the ocher hills. The Israelites were gone, fled back to the safety of their God.

  Much like around Rabba, wildlife was nowhere to be seen. No bold cat prowling through the rocks, no birds, either. The animals must be feeling the same as him. Vulnerable. Uneasy. They knew there was something out there, big and menacing, with complete disregard for their lives.

  In the Valley of Shfela, both Dlila and Shimshon robed themselves in Dagon’s colors. Even as he wrapped his shoulders, Shimshon knew it was wrong. Was there any honor in doing this? What did it mean, if he wore the marks of another deity? Did it lessen his own piety?

  As if I have any left.

  He couldn’t risk Dlila’s life. There was little honor in subterfuge, but the girl’s safety outweighed his disgrace.

  Mndnau must be following somewhere, unseen. Knowing the dark man was out there, invisible, made Shimshon itchy. Trust is like a sword at your back.

  “What about your hair?” Dlila asked. “They will know you by your hair.”

  Yes, my hair. “I will hide it under a veil,” he muttered.

  “Maybe you could—”

  “No!” he almost shouted.

  “—dye your hair with soot,” she finished.

  Oh. “That’s a good idea,” he admitted, feeling slightly embarrassed. But I will not cut my hair!

  Slowly, life returned, and after several quiet, tense days, Shimshon suspected every face he saw.

  There were a lot of people on the road in the Shfela, untouched by the destruction to the north. Either they did not know about the armies of Gomer and their allies, or they did not care, feeling safe and protected.

  How can you expect them to understand the danger they are facing?

  Once or twice, he saw Dlila tense as people of the Shimon tribe went past, dragging their goods or leading their beasts to a distant market. In times of war, the Plishtim and the Israelites would fight on these plains and through the swamps when rains swelled the streams before the first harvest. But then, often as not, they would lay down their spears and bows and trade in wool and silk and zaatar as if nothing had happened the previous seed-time.

  It was the same everywhere else. Peace let people forget the pain of war, let them grow complacent and confident, so they could go back to fighting the other nations.

  He had seen the brittle alliances in the ruins of Menashe and Reuben, even his own kingdom. The lull in killing made people hopeful, forced their guard down. They became confused and weak, and then they died.

  Now, Menashe, Reuben, Ammon: all of them were gone, made into dust, which was why he preferred cold, hard battle. He understood it all too well. It was simple. In contrast, this was maddening.

  Well, now that he was riding toward danger, toward war and blood and killing, a big part of his soul cheered.

  Shimshon tensed far more often than Dlila. The Plishtim looked intent on war, with patrols in every village. Each time they encountered a group of soldiers, Dlila had an opportunity to betray him.

  But she did not.

  A few uneventful days later, his hair the color of a raven’s wing, they reached Gat.

  CHAPTER KAF-DALET

  BAAL FORGIVE ME

  With deep satisfaction in his heart, Prince Zabul stared at the assembled host. On the left were the Hittim in their darkwood chariots, the colorful shields of their warriors hung and displayed over the front. Next to them were the soldiers of Tubal, their backs draped in fur too warm for Lakhish. Zabul’s own troops shared most of the right flank, carrying bows. But the most impressive of all were the Magog, the proud chieftains and heroes serving Prince Gog. They had the magical metal, and their armor shone like silver. Many carried spears adorned with the symbols of Tariav.

  “A great array of men,” a little slave translated the words of his most honored ally.

  Prince Zabul nodded. “We will be invincible.”

  “The battle must always be approached with respect,” Prince Gog said.

  “Certainly,” Zabul agreed, but he was daydreaming of his victories, past and future. The dragon had destroyed the tribes of the north in a matter of a few weeks. Yet, for some reason, it could not attack the City of David. The power of Elohim stopped it, Osnath said. That task would fall upon his soldiers, and he trusted their strength and prowess against his ancient enemies.

  He had no reason to doubt the scrolls.

  Once the temple in the city was razed and the protective shield of the Israelite god was lifted from Iehuda, there would be nothing to stop him from taking over the world.

  Almost instinctively, he raised his head toward the silhouette in the sky. The serpent was coming to feast, and he intended to present it with a great offering. Some of his soldiers still looked queasy around the beast. He scorned their cowardice.

  Zabul turned toward Osnath and nodded.

  At his cue, she detached herself from the mass of Gat nobles and stepped toward the circle, much like the one they had drawn in the ground near Sidon. She was holding one of those gleaming swords of Gomer. Zabul became aroused.

  He scanned the square outside his palace. The statue of Baal loomed above the white buildings, casting a shadow over the quiet yet excited crowd of armed men. Smaller sculptures of the rest of the pantheon lined the court. Like the warriors, they watched and waited.

  Osnath stripped off her clothes. Zabul felt a pang of jealousy that so many soldiers were ogling her curvaceous body, but he knew it had to be done. Tariav demanded it.

  Baal would be pleased.

  “Bring the prisoners,” Zabul ordered.

  Chained folk were brought forward, men, women, and children of the northern tribes, humbled by their capture. Their robes and faces were grimy and they walked stooped, weary and beaten, the shackles on their arms and legs making their gait of defeat even more grotesque.

  Osnath made them kneel and, without any great ceremony, drew the sharp edge of the blade against their throats. One by one, the stunned, exhausted prisoners toppled over, silent except for a rare gurgle or dying twitch of a leg scraping against the dusty ground. Soon enough, the square was muddy with blood and his concubine was red up to her knees. The priests were praying, and a low murmur hovered above the crowd.

  For you, Tariav. This is my offering to you. Then, with a sudden pang of guilt, he glanced at Baal. It had to be done.

  “The serpent will approve,” the slave translated.

  “Yes,” Zabul agreed.

  “He gets a special offering today,” Gog continued.

  Zabul looked at the man, his golden locks, his pale face, his eyes the color of a frosty morning. The other prince was smiling, but there was something odd about that smile.

  Odd about that smile…

  A heartbeat later, he felt a cold length of magical metal slide into his guts. His legs gave way, becoming a dead weight, and he sank to the ground, choking on the smell of his own feces. He tried to speak, but only a weak gasp escaped his lips. Like the prisoners.

  No!

  “The serpent will be pleased. He gets a royal offering today,” Gog said.

  Snickering, two of the Gomer warriors grabbed him and dragged him toward the chalked circle, coarse dust cold and grating against his knees. Zabul watched with impotent horror as more men approached a confused and frightened Osnath, pushed her to the ground, and opened her throat, right next to her victims. She jerked for a while, and then her beautiful, tattooed body went still.

  The nobles tensed, but they did not move.

  The pain in his abdomen was excruciating and he couldn’t make it stop
. Zabul tasted tears. Must be his own. The soldiers dumped him into the red mud. He landed on his side, face turned toward the cloud-streaked sky.

  From the corner of his eye, through the bloody grime in his lashes, he could see Baal’s statue. His god was definitely not pleased. Weakly, he looked up higher.

  Tariav, kill them all! Destroy the traitors!

  The dragon was coming closer, a large, menacing presence. It swooped low, circled around the square, and batted its powerful wings, raising a cloud of dirt and gravel that pelted Zabul’s skin like rain. Its scarlet heads were turning, searching. The dragon’s eyes found him. A chorus of growls and hoots exploded through the air.

  Tariav is angry!

  He will devour all these traitors now!

  The beast landed on Baal’s temple.

  The assembled troops raised their hands and cheered. Men of Meshekh and Gomer first, then, his own soldiers, knowing they had to join or die. Everyone was shouting at the top of their lungs, praising the beast.

  The dragon did not attack them.

  Its large claws gripping crumbling masonry of his palace walls, Tariav exulted in the worship.

  No... it can’t be!

  Slowly, very slowly, Zabul turned his head, the cold against his ear almost as painful as the wound in his guts. He could just glimpse Osnath, slumped like a torn sack of barley, eyes glazed with fresh death. He squeezed tears from his eyes, but now, the world was losing color, becoming blurry. Straining, he looked back toward the dragon.

  The scrolls had promised him the mastery of the beast, if he called its name. What had he done wrong? What would happen to his land now? What would happen to his god now?

  The pain in his belly lessened gradually.

  It was a dull, hot throb pulsing in his groin now. He knew his life was leaking away through the red rent, like wine from a shredded skin. Zabul tried to move again, to look at his concubine one last time, but his body would not respond. His arms felt weak, and he couldn’t move them any longer. The lack of sensation crept up, into his belly, over his chest, sealing away the agony with lukewarm numbness. It was as if he didn’t have a body any more, and his head was perched on a slab of heavy stone.

  He found breathing difficult. Ragged, short hisses fled his lips. He sucked hard, trying to get more air into his mouth, but it was in vain. Twilight descended on the square, too early. He blinked and it cleared away some.

  Tariav was still there, perched, lazily flapping its great wings. They brushed against the divine statues, making old, wind-worn stone shatter like dried twigs. If the gods felt anger for the evil deed, they did nothing to protest. In the square, warriors from the four corners of the world continued to cheer.

  Zabul blinked again, and this time, the gray fog did not clear. His vision narrowed, until all he could see was a blurred image of the great serpent. Regret and fear made their way into his heart and stayed there, even as the last traces of life fled his ruined flesh.

  Baal forgive me, he begged and died.

  CHAPTER KAF-HEI

  THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING

  Dlila tried to scream.

  Shimshon clamped a hand over her mouth, turning her dismay into a muffled groan.

  “Keep quiet. Do not cry. Do not shout. Smile. Smile, or we will die.” Or, at least, I will be forced to fight a myriad soldiers of Gomer with their shining swords as well as that foul beast, and that might be too much for a cloudy day.

  He gazed at the square, the cheering mass of troops from all nations, the scarlet monster perched on the broken idols of Pleshet deities, basking in worship; the crumpled forms of the prince and his lover. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and fear.

  After a quiet night spent in a small inn run by a mute but always-smiling Plishti, Shimshon decided to scout the city the next morning. He intended to learn more about the layout of the buildings and roads, to assess the strength of their defenses, the alertness of the prince’s guard, and to examine the palace to find a way to sneak inside undetected.

  He had not expected to join a tide of curious people streaming toward the great square to what was obviously a congregation of great importance. He had not expected to stand to one side and watch a grisly ritual of sacrifice in the name of foreign gods. Least of all, he had not expected to see Prince Zabul die at the footsteps of his own palace, and listen to the mad cheering of the crowds intoxicated by frenzy and fear.

  This changes everything.

  Shimshon had intended to kill the two princes, but the leader of the Magog had spoiled his plan. Now, he had to think. Restrain himself. Acting rashly would not do. Even though his muscles burned with a deep need for revenge, even though he itched to step forward into the bloodied court and slay the enemy, he did not move from the side street behind a stall of fruit.

  In between flaring thoughts of vengeance for Ammon, his king, and his people, a question rolled through his mind.

  How did one go about killing a dragon? With a sword? A bow?

  Dlila was whimpering into his arm, warm spit appearing between his fingers. He slackened his grip and waited. Her breath shuddered and her eyes were moist with naked fear, but she maintained some semblance of sanity. Shimshon lowered his hand.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “I will protect you,” he repeated stubbornly.

  Some distance away from their cover, people stood and watched, hands curled like claws, worried, sweaty fingers wringing their clothes, dazed just like Dlila, uncertain how they ought to react. Should they be elated? Should they be terrified? They had just witnessed the death of their prince, but the city seethed with the sound of celebration and worship.

  Shimshon considered what he should do next. Go back to Iehuda? Talk to Iermiah? Maybe that strange Cushi would share his advice, if Shimshon managed to find him again. Where was Mndnau, anyway?

  Omens kept on piling up. His skin tingled.

  This is the end of the world.

  He could not kill Prince Gog now. Not yet. He would have to wait for a better opportunity, but that meant staying in Gat. Linger and hide like a thief. That would be risky and dishonorable. But this foe had no loyalty, no honor. He was utterly unpredictable, and followed the beast.

  Killing the prince won’t be enough. I must slay the dragon.

  There could be no reasoning, no mercy. That monster could not be tamed. Even a blind man could see that. The enemy soldiers might pretend they enjoyed its protection or grace, but Shimshon knew the dragon merely suffered these fools for the time being.

  What does the dragon want?

  Then he remembered the sooty wasteland where the city of his king used to be, his home.

  The destruction of life. Nothing less.

  Men and gods would die in the coming battle. But whatever the price, Shimshon intended to put an end to the serpent. For now, he had to bide his time like a coward and figure out how to do just that. Cut off all its heads, maybe? Iermiah must know. He must have been told by the wise men in Bavel.

  Maybe.

  But the prophet had his own agenda as well. He served the Hebrew god. He was an Israelite.

  And you are…? his conscience asked. A man without a land, without a nation.

  A warrior.

  The premonition hit him in the belly like a hoof of a mule. He suddenly knew that even Iermiah might not know. But in that moment, he knew who would.

  The priests in their temple on Mount Moriah.

  They knew.

  They were the reason the dragon had not attacked the City of David.

  He wanted blood, but he needed answers first.

  With great reluctance, Shimshon pulled Dlila after him, turning his back to the bloody scene. There was an itch between his shoulder blades, shame and anger and curiosity scratching like the furious claws of a rat. His body was taut with danger. Leaving was the hardest thing to do. An unnatural thing for him. But there was nothing natural about Gat that day. The Plishtim were doomed and they did not even realize it. The man who ruled
their city had nothing to do with their gods. He served that huge red serpent.

  There had to be a way.

  The kohanim will know.

  “What are we going to do?” Dlila asked in a hushed, almost breathless tone, her shoes dragging, her steps erratic, stumbling, tripping over her own feet.

  Shimshon stopped walking and let her rest against a cold mudbrick wall. He wiped her tears with his thumbs. His touch lingered on her warm skin, tracing her cheekbones. What are we going to do? Go back to Biniamin and speak to the priests. But Aluf Hananiel had told him it wasn’t allowed. Well, he would have to find a way. He had to.

  His stomach roiled again.

  Decide.

  Flee or stay? He felt like he had the day he met Dlila. Whatever he decided now would have dire consequences.

  You are a warrior, Shimshon. You cannot flee.

  “We will lodge in Gat for a few more days, until I can decide how slay the prince...and that thing.” I must petition the kohanim, but not yet. I must learn more about this enemy.

  “Please, Shimshon, let us leave,” she begged.

  He sighed. “No. We must stay. Until that is killed, we will not be safe anywhere.”

  She didn’t move for a while. Her eyes alone flitted left and right, up and down, focusing on a different spot on his face. Shimshon waited, breathing hard, excited, angry. What if she chose to defy him? All she had to do was scream and there would be a hundred gray blades levelled at his chest. She was a Plishtit, one of theirs. She could claim any number of half-truths or lies, and they would believe her.

  Finally, she swallowed and nodded.

  Shimshon heard commotion farther down the street.

  He looked and saw a squad of soldiers coming their way. The shopkeepers went silent behind their stalls. The troops moved on with a brazen step, their harnesses and weapons banging and grating against bushels of grains, canvas awnings, and wicker boxes full of dried fruit. They were dressed in the fashion of Pleshet, but their uniforms were adorned with the symbol of the dragon.

  “Do not speak unless they ask you a question. Stay behind me.”

  He forced himself to relax, let his hands hang at the sides of his body, but close to his hidden knives. He had left his gray sword wrapped in a cloth in the bottom of Dlila’s cart. He would draw too much attention carrying that thing in the streets of Gat.