I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 7

  “A book keeper,” the prophet remarked.

  Like the doorways, they multiplied. They went up and down at a slow, steady pace, heads bent. Shimshon tried to greet them, but they did not respond. Or maybe they did not understand him.

  The two of them resumed their downward journey.

  “This is my sixth time,” Iermiah responded at length.

  “And each time, you were sent by the malakhim?” His words echoed.

  “No. Thrice I had visions. Once, King Zidkiah sent me here, to find a cure for his child. And twice, I believe, I was ordered here by a God’s messenger. The last time, it was to learn—” He suddenly paused.

  “What?”

  “This is where we part. For now.” Iermiah was standing under a glyph that, like so many others, meant nothing to Shimshon. For the third time that day, he had a strange feeling he had never experienced before.

  Lesser men might call it fear.

  Without another word, the prophet stepped into the corridor and it swallowed him. Shimshon stood there, wondering what he should do next. Follow Rami?

  Understanding coalesced in his mind, seeping through his guts, through his skin. The Tower was talking to him in its strange, timeless tongue. The doorways weren’t there for anyone to step through, he heard. You could never go through the same portal twice. Or step through one that was not destined for you.

  Shimshon did not want to contemplate the consequence of entering the wrong library.

  He also realized there was a price. Each time you came to the Tower, it took something from you. You traded a part of your soul for knowledge.

  No going back.

  Down.

  His feet took him further and further into the heart of the tower, deep underground, away from sanity and sunlight and Melek’s touch. Time lost meaning. It was impossible to know how many thousands of steps he trod, how many doorways he passed. Robed men went by, and they never once spared him a single glance.

  Then, he noticed a glyph.

  An eye, framed in a triangle.

  His whole body froze. This symbol was terribly important.

  Melek give me strength.

  But so deep underground in a place of magic and arcane power—if he were underground—his plea sounded like begging.

  Shimshon, Son of Menok, does not run away from anything. Not even his own fear.

  No going back. He needed to know.

  He stepped into the library.

  The trick of space made him dizzy again. An impossibly large vault opened before him, tall, wide, fading into the gloom, full of shelves and scrolls. In front of the giant book cases, there was a small table, and a man sat behind it, writing. A guttering candle was all the light he had, but his hand moved with patience and precision.

  Shimshon felt like a child as he went closer. Every sound he made reverberated, magnified. He could hear himself breathing. He could hear the tip of the quill scratching against expensive vellum, and he could hear his heart thudding.

  “What is this library?” he croaked, cleared his throat, asked again: “What is it called?”

  The man raised his head, saw him, acknowledged him. He was neither old, nor young. Ageless, really. He had a face that belonged in Ammon as it did it Mizr or Tsur. The man’s hair was shot with silver, but his face had no creases, no blemishes. A pale face, hidden away from the world above.

  “This is the Library of Revelation.”

  Perfect Aramaic. Clear, pure.

  Shimshon swallowed. He reached into his pouch and removed the little piece of cloth. He placed it in front of the librarian.

  The bookkeeper put down his quill. He looked at the stitching, turning it around. “You can read Aramaic?”

  “Yes. Triv. But what does it mean?”

  The other man rose from his chair, pushing it back with a screech of worn wood on cold stone. Holding the scrap in his hand, he walked into the gloom. Shimshon could hear him shuffling, heard him moving books on the shelves, but he could not see him. He waited, even though he burned to follow the keeper into the maze of scrolls and letters.

  Sometime later, the man returned and sat back at his table.

  “It is a number. Six hundred and sixteen. Tariav. Number. Name.”

  Tariav not Triv. Shimshon nodded weakly. “But what does that mean?”

  The keeper fixed him with a blank stare. “It is the name of the beast.”

  Shimshon frowned. “What beast?”

  “The dragon.”

  CHAPTER YOD-ALEPH

  BAAL WILL BE PLEASED

  Prince Zabul stared at the excavation, the result of many months of hard labor. The still half-covered thing looked like a giant statue of some old kingdom, long destroyed, buried in the dirt, forgotten. A wreath of bulges, curves, and bony fixtures, blunted by wind, rain, and erosion.

  But one of the statue’s eyes was finally visible, just as the scrolls demanded.

  It was time.

  The team of a thousand builders, helpers, and slaves stood in a wide circle around the digging pit on the massive net of scaffolding, ladders, and rope bridges spanning the chasm of their work, among the tents and crudely built mud shacks lining the edge of the massive pit, on the heaps of turned soil and rock, all staring, equally perplexed. They weren’t quite sure what they had just unearthed, either.

  Only one way to find out, Zabul knew.

  But now, he hesitated.

  Buried things ought to remain buried, the sorcerers of Kaftor had warned him. Mounds of earth had covered them for a reason, to keep them hidden from the eyes of the people. And this one had lain here for a thousand years. Such a long time that no one remembered, let alone spoke of it.

  I have to do it.

  “Be brave,” Osnath said, somewhere behind him.

  He turned to see his concubine naked, preparing for the ritual. On the ground, a circle had been marked in white chalk and a five-pointed star drawn inside it, with the prime point aimed toward the evening star.

  “Come, my prince,” she beckoned.

  In a moment of passion and whim, against his reluctance and instinct, he had told his concubine about his plan.

  She had not argued.

  She had urged him to continue.

  He left his place at the edge of the pit. Acolytes waited, watching him carefully. I am brave. Baal will approve.

  He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the circle.

  The acolytes moved. They brought a dove first. Osnath slit its throat and let the blood drip in the dust, on her feet. Next, the acolytes led a horse into the circle. Zabul’s concubine accepted a ritual sword from one of her priestesses and sliced the beast’s throat. It bucked and kicked, but then collapsed in a heap, leaking its life into the groove full of chalk, dyeing it red.

  The lion cub in its cage of wood and bronze was mewing angrily, trying to claw at the temple disciples as they dragged the box toward the circle. Osnath poked the cage with the sword, once, twice, until she speared the cat. It yelped and growled. Soon, it was still, just like the bird and the horse.

  Prince Zabul watched with fascination.

  She had asked him to unite their powers. The power of Baal and the power of Ishtar. Lying naked next to her in their tent, covered in sweat, it had made perfect sense.

  But now, as he was about to witness whether the ancient scrolls spoke the truth, he was less convinced.

  The last sacrifice was an infant.

  Only Baal had never asked for a child, before.

  “Must it be a child?” he almost pleaded.

  “There is no other way, my prince,” Osnath reasoned.

  Zabul swallowed. So be it. He nodded. The acolytes brought a child wrapped in linen and marked with the star on its forehead, and placed it on the ground, inside the circle. Their sandals squelched red as they retreated. Osnath, streaks of blood running down her shins, extended her hand, holding the dripping stone sword. Reluctantly, Zabul accepted it from her.

  I am about to unleash fury unt
o the world. Baal, give me guidance.

  He pushed the blade.

  There was no sound, just eerie softness.

  “Lie down,” Osnath instructed him.

  Zabul let the sword clatter from his sweaty fingers. He lowered himself on the ground, blood and dust and chalk warm against his back. His soldiers and the builders watched, a circle of spectators that made him slightly squeamish. But the sight of his concubine, her curves and tattoos, riled him up.

  She lowered herself on top of him with a small moan. The last part of the sacrifice. She started gyrating. His thrusts grew faster and deeper. He lost sight of the crowd. There was only Osnath, her tattooed hands weaving an elaborate prayer.

  “Now,” she rasped.

  “Tariav!” he shouted and climaxed.

  He slumped into the dirt.

  Nothing happened.

  Osnath pushed herself up, dripping his warm seed onto his thighs. She was staring intently toward the pit. It was getting darker, the sky quickly turning the color of an old bruise, but the ancient, buried bulges, curves, and bony fixtures were still.

  “It did not work. The gods will be displeased,” she hissed.

  Zabul rose to his knees, feeling weak, sick. All these months of fruitless work. He had risked everything—his wealth, his reputation, his power—staying away from his nation for so long, his own life, provoking the ire of the Sidonians and Tsurs, provoking their gods.

  Only to fail.

  It was all in vain. His feeling of doubt transformed into sharp despair. This had been a test from Baal, and he was ruined. All he had left was a broken pride, a failing reign, and angry allies coming to his doorstep. Allies who expected to partake in his glory and conquest.

  Once they arrived, they would laugh at him.

  Or take revenge, punishing him for his weakness.

  “Maybe we need more sacrifice, my prince,” his concubine said, her tone shaky, reaching for the sword, her body all blood and dust. “Another child.”

  The earth moved under him.

  It was a sudden shiver in the ground, almost imperceptible, but in his quagmire of terror, Zabul noticed, felt it like a stab through his stomach.

  “Silence,” he warned her.

  The earth moved again and this time, it was a solid tremor.

  A wave of murmurs erupted from the crowd of builders as they hastily stepped from the edge of the digging pit. The land was shaking now, and the lip of the pit was crumbling. Stones rolled into the pit, a hissing thunder. The massive net of scaffolding and ladders groaned and shook, ropes snapping and wooden beams cracking.

  At the bottom of the pit, the eye opened.

  A perfect ball of bright, red fire.

  Zabul opened his mouth in joy and spread his arms.

  After a thousand years, the dragon was awake again.

  Panicked shouting from a thousand throats coalesced with the steady rumble of rock and became a pealing torrent that filled his ears, his chest. Men disappeared into the chasm, whirling dust rising in an angry, boiling fist.

  In the pit, the thousand-year-old skin of old clay was crackling, sliding off the buried hulk in great sheets. A cloud of dirt whirled high, and through it, Zabul saw a huge scarlet beast emerging from the layers of dust and ground, its body shining like painted armor, the vibrant color of its big, square scales untouched by time. First, a wing broke through the crust, pushing and flailing through the rope bridges and wooden frames, breaking them like twigs. Then, another wing. Then, a leg like that of a bear rose and pawed at the scaffolding, shattering it into slivers. Bodies toppled into the pit, like seeds from a kicked bowl.

  The rest of the builders and slaves were running away now, trying to get away from death.

  The beast bucked and a heavy, thick neck rose out of the pit, studded with horns. These ten horns, each the length of a spear, thrust up, gleaming red in the failing twilight. There was a landslide now as the massive bulk rose from the ground. The camp was in ruins, getting sucked into the excavation as the pit walls collapsed.

  Zabul stared with burning dust in his face as the dragon liberated itself from its ancient prison, its seven heads free. It casts its scarlet eyes at the dusky world, at the terrified people trying to flee.

  At him.

  Zabul swallowed cold fear. He could not stop now or the beast would destroy him. Devour him.

  The dragon whipped its long, serrated tail out, causing more damage around it, and took to a sluggish flight, beating its six wings like sails, raising a great veil of dust and scree. Tents tore from their pegs, filthy cloth riding on the wind.

  Zabul blinked joy and pain from his eyes and shakily stood up.

  “Tariav!”

  The seven heads all turned, even as the shadow of the dragon’s massive trunk fell over Zabul, blotting the world away. Dirt rained down from the scarlet body in a fine salty mist. The sun had fallen below the lip of the world, the stars were coming up in ever-greater numbers, and it was getting dark, but the scarlet beast shone bright with its own light along the edges of its notched skin, horns, and claws.

  The dragon hovered in the air, the ancient, fiery eyes trained on him.

  “The gods are pleased!” Osnath shouted and hugged him from behind, still on her knees, her bloody hands pawing at him, slipping. He barely noticed.

  Zabul remembered the last part of the scrolls. The most important part. “Tariav! I have set you free. I command you!”

  The dragon reared one if its heads and screeched. It was a sound like a bird calling, only louder. The cry hit Zabul in the chest like a hammer, crushing breath and valor from out of him. He felt worthless, but quickly remembered himself.

  He must be strong. He must be resolute.

  He must command the beast.

  “Are you hungry?” Zabul asked. Another screech. Primal, wild needs coursed through his soul. Yes, I can understand your needs!

  “What does it want?” Osnath spoke against his shoulder, her voice sickly sweet with power. She was unafraid.

  Zabul felt new thoughts rolling through his mind. Foreign thoughts. Not his. “He is hungry. He needs flesh.”

  His concubine released her wet grip. A moment later, she was holding the infant’s still body aloft, toward the dragon.

  “No, he needs more,” Zabul said. The builders. He could not let them walk away from this. Zabul pointed toward the running men. “Tariav, your feast!”

  Zabul watched with fascination and horror as a dragon head snapped down and scooped a handful of men in its big, fanged maw. The shrieks intensified. The confusion that gripped the petrified builders and slaves still left in the ruined camp shattered. In their fear and madness, and with nowhere to go, the men turned back and jumped into the pit. The churning, settling sea of wood, bronze, and debris swallowed them.

  Zabul and his concubine stood alone in the pool of muddy blood and dead offerings, watching the ancient magic and power unfold before them. His own acolytes and soldiers were cowering on the ground behind him, groveling, weeping, and trying to crawl away from the dragon. Some had already fled, lost in the rush of terrified men.

  No, he could not lose them! “Soldiers, to me. Stay close to me!” Zabul shouted. “Stay or die!”

  The troops huddled closer. Once proud, fierce warriors, they all looked like children now, pasty-faced, crying, terrified. Zabul could smell their piss and shit. Ishtar’s priestesses were braver, kneeling, eyes closed, praying.

  Does Ishtar wield more power than Baal here? He wondered.

  No, I command the dragon. Tariav is mine!

  The seven heads lashed out, grabbing running bodies, swallowing them whole. Thick blood rained around the pit. Every few deaths, one of the heads called out in exultation and gloating, asserting its power. Soon enough, there was not a single soul among the builders left. Only his small retinue remained, along with the priestesses of Ishtar. An island of life in a sea of gore.

  The dragon hovered above the pit, but it showed no indication that it was go
ing to attack the men of Pleshet. Good. That meant the scrolls were right, and Zabul was master of the most powerful weapon in the whole world.

  He was invincible. It would be the end of Elohim.

  Baal will be pleased. And that made Prince Zabul pleased, too. Very pleased indeed.

  CHAPTER YOD-BET

  I CAN FACE MYRIADS OF WARRIORS,

  BUT NOT A LONE GIRL!

  For a change, Shimshon sat on the wagon by Dlila’s side, to let his horse rest—but also so he could talk to her and make her trust him, a task he had struggled to accomplish ever since he’d met her. His two animals were tied to the back, following at the rein’s length. Iermiah was riding some distance to the left, whistling. They were returning to Ammon.

  Despite the burden weighing on his soul, despite a thousand questions nagging at him like gnats, he felt his spirit rise. He was looking forward to the familiarity of his uncle’s kingdom. To the law and justice and power. To his rightful place as the minister of war. To Melek’s touch.

  After the smothering grip Bavel had on him, he felt almost free. He was happy to put the choking, sweltering bustle and wealth of the great city behind him. More than that, he wanted to put some distance between him and the wise men in the Tower. He didn’t want to stay. He didn’t want to get lured back into those dark, mystical libraries. He did not want to pay the price of that ever again.

  King Tobiah needed him. And he needed to be the hero of his people.

  The roads were quiet, empty, almost deserted. It felt as if the world was holding its breath.

  A dragon. A great flying serpent.

  Could it be true?

  Worse, what did it mean?

  Shimshon looked at the prophet. Iermiah had not told him what he had experienced inside that mystical place of books and languages, but under his brittle smiles, there was worry, too. The bald Israelite had been like that ever since they departed Bavel.

  Why does he have to whistle, Shimshon thought, irritated. The tune was disjointed. Maybe because he is afraid of the silence.