I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 9

  There was no need. There was nothing left to see.

  Where Rabba used to stand, in the place of its magnificent walls and houses and towers, there was only smoldering black rubble.

  CHAPTER YOD-DALET

  WE SHOULD GO TO THE CITY OF DAVID

  Shimshon stared.

  Fields that should have held the late-season crops were burned to a brown stubble. Cracked earth, as if it had not tasted rain in a decade, was shiny and slick as brick from a kiln. At first, he mistook the glassy puddles for water, until he saw it was melted rock, fused onto the hard, scorched mud underneath. Trees burst like rotten figs, crisped white into cinders. Patches of hard soot made the footing tricky, and the dead soil was striated brown and black where fires had followed their whim.

  Shimshon breathed the heavy, hot air. He felt reviled at the barren look of the land, at the cold, throaty stench of conflagration, at the strange touch under the horse’s hoofs.

  “Stay here. Keep your eyes open,” he whispered at Iermiah and Dlila. He did not know why he was whispering. It must have been the deathly silence weighing on his soul.

  “Shimshon, don’t leave us,” Dlila pleaded.

  “I will not,” he promised.

  Mindful of her frightened gaze and Iermiah’s cold, almost dreamy look, Shimshon approached the ruins of his city, of the heart of the Ammonite kingdom. The place where his home should be, his friends, his soldiers, his king.

  Melek.

  There was just oily black emptiness instead.

  Their animals were frisky, crying forlornly. Shimshon cringed at every sound, feeling exposed. Deep down, he just knew there was not a living thing within a dozen parsas. Maybe even more. Maybe the entire world was dead, and he did not know it.

  What had happened here?

  But neither the ruins, the ghosts, nor the void in the pit of his stomach held any answers.

  Closer still, the city walls had crumpled, exploded into shards, and ran like candles, leaving behind a blackened mess of ugly shapes, crooked fingers, and blobs of death. The buildings were all gone, only rings of rock marking where they had once stood. He could see across the valley, all the way to Iazer; something that wasn’t possible when Rabba still stood.

  No bodies. No bones. No sign of human or animal habitation.

  Shimshon spent a few bitter moments staring at the burned remains of his city.

  Then, wordlessly, he led them south. They rode without stopping until well into the night, exhausted, hungry, with a thousand cruel questions stabbing at their tense, weary bodies like the knives of a hidden foe.

  Dlila dozed on the wagon’s bench while her mule followed the other two beasts by instinct. Iermiah slumped against his donkey’s neck, as he would do when drunk, though he might be having a prophet’s nightmare.

  Only Shimshon kept his vigil; alert, nervous, battling rage, dismay, and what might be an inkling of fear, if only he let the sensation grip his heart.

  Slowly, the destruction vanished behind them, and nature became green and brown, vibrant, and thorny again. It was still empty, deserted, devoid of man and beast. Night fell, cloaking the world in a serene violet gauze, like a veil of silk.

  If they had followed the south road rather than going to Rabba, he would never have known the city had been obliterated to the last stone. It was a lie he was telling himself. Ever since meeting that old man—a messenger?—in the army camp, omens just kept getting more frequent and sinister.

  He hadn’t felt his god in a long time.

  This wasn’t just a coincidence.

  Why Rabba?

  Why had the desolation stopped—or started—in Shubat Enlil?

  A thousand questions later, his mouth sore, his lips cracked, his back stiff, Shimshon reached the foothills of Hor, its reddish stone as ordinary as any other rock in the moonlit night. The mountain was a wedge of darkness against the starry heaven.

  Shimshon dismounted and stretched, flexing his numb muscles. He walked his horse into a ravine, carefully probing the ground. They were forced to backtrack, because the gully was too narrow for the wagon. A while later, he found another canyon and followed it to its bottom. He heard the gurgling sound of a running spring. No easy approach, with thick rock to shield them from sudden attacks. Fresh water to feed the beasts. They would rest here.

  “No fire. No talking,” Shimshon warned his companions.

  Iermiah and Dlila barely responded before they collapsed on the ground.

  Shimshon squared his shoulders. He would take the first watch. Time to contemplate and wonder how Melek would let anyone—anything—destroy Rabba.

  The small piece of cloth with its stitched letters burned against his skin.

  In the morning, he woke with the sunlight creeping above the edge of the rust-colored rock. Iermiah was doing his best to keep watch sitting on a stone, wrapped in a light blanket, and pretending not to doze off. It was all too easy to dismiss the prophet, but he did have presence, he did have power, and Shimshon also felt reassurance at seeing the bald Israelite at his side.

  The stream was still in the shadow and the air was chilly.

  Shimshon kicked the cover away and rose, buckling on his sword. Dlila was still asleep.

  Iermiah stirred and turned. “Dreamed well, Ammonite?”

  A night without dreams. “Yes. Did you see or hear anything?”

  The prophet shrugged. “It was the quietest night of my life.”

  Shimshon followed the sound of running water to a small spring full of fresh, clear water. There should be people there. Travelers, soldiers, tribesmen of the desert, the people of Reuven and Moav, bandits fleeing the law.

  There was no one there.

  Shimshon knelt, tracing old, discarded shards of pottery buried in the ground. He splashed his face, refilled their skins, then went back to gently wake Dlila. She started, but when she saw him, her eyes softened.

  She prayed after that, quickly, whispering. Iermiah must have already done his own supplication before sunrise. Shimshon wondered if now, especially now, he might whisper a prayer to his god. But something held him fast, something he could not quite explain.

  “We are safe here?” Dlila asked as they ate a cold breakfast, looking past him. Not up. She had no reason to suspect the sky.

  Shimshon glanced toward the narrow passage out of the canyon. If needed, he could stop a dozen men there, while Iermiah and Dlila made an escape deeper into the ravine, following the little creek. The rock shelves were too high for archers to shoot down comfortably and cavalry could not charge. The span between the two sides of the gorge narrowed down to just the width of one’s shoulders in a few places.

  Too narrow for any flying serpents, too.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “What happened in Rabba?” Iermiah said, rubbing his eyes.

  Shimshon stared down at the ground, trying to ignore the worry budding in his heart. What had happened to his mother? To the king? Where were his people? Was Ammon still a kingdom, or had it been destroyed? “I am not sure.”

  “An entire city razed to the ground. That takes a great army,” the prophet pressed.

  Or a great beast, Shimshon thought. But no. Until he saw Tariav, he did not want to believe its existence. His head hurt. Things were happening too fast. “Yes.”

  “What do we do now?” Dlila said, watching him carefully.

  “We try to find survivors. Any survivors. Learn the truth from them.”

  Rami sniffed. “You think you will find any? After that?”

  “I hope so,” Shimshon replied, feeling hopeless.

  “We should go to the City of David,” the prophet said suddenly.

  Shimshon leaned back against the rock. “Why?” he asked with suspicion.

  Iermiah’s expression was impossible to read. “Maybe the people of the city can help. Maybe they will know more.”

  “If the city still remains,” Shimshon mused.

  “It must,” Rami insisted with frightening confidence.


  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know.”

  “I don’t want to go there,” Dlila spoke. “I do not—”

  “No one will bother you,” Iermiah assured her, surprising Shimshon with his promise. “You have my word.”

  She looked at Shimshon, almost waiting for his approval. He wanted to nod, but that meant agreeing with the prophet. He wasn’t sure why the Israelite would be so keen on going to the City of David, but he must have his reasons, just as he had for going to Bavel.

  An omen.

  “Until we know more, we won’t go anywhere,” Shimshon stated, rising. “You two will remain here. I will hunt for game and see if I can find any signs of what happened.”

  “Don’t leave us,” Dlila begged.

  Shimshon looked toward a curve in the little stream. There was a rush of cattails growing there, under a shelf that obscured the view from the cliff edge above. A good place to hide. “Move the wagon there. If you hear any noise, stay out of sight.”

  For once, Iermiah did not argue or proudly demonstrate his usual cowardice. It was almost as if the tragedy gave him strength. “As you say.”

  Shimshon veiled himself. He checked the string on his bow. He made sure his sword was clear in the sheath. He rubbed a finger over the hilt of his hunting knife. “I will return before nightfall.”

  Murmuring—almost on instinct—a quick, halfhearted prayer to Melek, he walked into the bright, crisp morning. There was a wind outside the canyon, and it brushed his skin like a lover’s fingers. He went on foot, knowing he presented a smaller target that way to any enemy out there.

  Only, there were no people in sight.

  Or animals.

  The last part really worried him. What could make every bird, deer, and even wild dog simply disappear?

  The land had always thrived with life. Now, it was a deserted red carpet thrown over rugged hills and valleys. The only signs of life were discarded pieces of tack and broken wagon wheels left by passing caravans on their way from Kadesh to Darmeshek. Unused, the road was quickly fading beneath a layer of earth.

  He passed old, worn stones buried deep in the dirt, leftovers of fire rings, and house walls and wells where once settlements used to be; signs of ancient, forgotten wars. They had probably been raided and dispersed by nomads from the east long ago. He stumbled past a battered herding hut, but its roof had caved in and it didn’t look as if it had been used for many months. Maybe years.

  He found no fresh tracks, no spoor, no footprints. No fires on the horizon, no sign of human habitation. There weren’t many people living in the foothills of Hor, but there always used to be small, roving bands of hunters and traders. Now, the gullies and cracked plains offered no respite to Shimshon’s growing doubts.

  The sun climbed and then dropped back toward the hills, clouds curling into a dark shape that promised rain. Shimshon realized he should turn back. He wasn’t tired, but his eyes hurt from staring at the empty expanse.

  That was when he heard voices.

  CHAPTER TET-VAV

  ANOTHER OMEN

  Voices.

  They sounded like a thunderstorm after the oppressive, deathly silence.

  Gently, Shimshon slid into a crouch and found an old, thorny bush to hide in. The sky rumbled right then, drowning all other noises, threatening to make its promise good. It was a distant grumble, but the clouds were moving in on high winds.

  Shimshon waited, knee pressed into the ground, unmoving. Then, he saw them.

  Two men on horses, and everything about them was wrong.

  Their animals were much bigger than any horses he had seen before; muscular and tall, with hairy shanks. They had saddles, but different than his Ashurian design. Theirs had long, leather straps hanging off the sides, looping back on themselves, creating a gap that allowed the riders to rest their feet inside the folded straps rather than have their legs dangle.

  The men wore helmets that had curling horns attached to the side, looking quite menacing. Painted horse hair hung from the back, and they wore masks made of beaten white bronze with tiny slits for eyes and wide, frightening mouths.

  But the thing that fascinated Shimshon the most were their swords.

  They were long and shiny, made of a metal that wasn’t bronze. Even from a distance, he could easily see the different texture, the different grain. Pale gray, with serpent decorations on the pommel and hilt.

  They spoke a language he did not understand. Not Ashuri. Not even Hittim, whose speakers rarely used Aramaic unless they expected gold from other people. They surely weren’t any of the warriors or soldiers Shimshon had met in all his years of fighting. Not Plishtim nor Edomim, not the men of Iehuda, not even the Tsurs. He had pitted his own blade against a hundred different enemies, but he had never glimpsed the likes of these two.

  Another omen.

  Shimshon watched them carefully, his earlier weariness gone, judging their posture, their hand motions, their combat prowess. They were not just bored scouts, he knew, recognizing the same spirit that flowed in his blood.

  He let them come closer, contemplating his course of action. There were no other riders around. The two must be on a patrol. Let them go? Kill them? Well, he needed some answers, but they obviously spoke a foreign language.

  It was as simple as that.

  He nocked his arrow and aimed.

  Melek, make my aim true.

  The arrow hit the first man in the belly. He looked down at the shaft protruding from his studded leather vest, and then, almost as an afterthought, let out a gasp that was part pain and part surprise. The other warrior looked left and right, alarmed, but Shimshon was already running, rushing at them from their blind side behind the injured soldier.

  He struck the wounded rider in the shoulder and the man spun and tumbled down. The second foe tried to bring his heavy horse around. Mindful of the big animal and its long-legged reach, Shimshon quickly circled around and swung hard, both hands on his sword.

  The blade slammed into the warrior’s back, saddle, and horse’s flank, but did not draw blood. Neighing angrily, the stallion bucked and kicked, sending dirt flying into Shimshon’s face. The rider lost his balance and fell, landing on his back with a deep, hollow thud. Wiping his eyes, Shimshon moved for a kill, but before he could close in, the soldier turned over like a startled cat.

  The sky rumbled.

  Shimshon stared at his enemy. The man rose, looking disoriented, but that gray sword demanded respect and Shimshon gave it. Luckily, the warrior hit by the arrow did not move.

  His remaining enemy yelled behind that white mask and lunged. Shimshon brought his sword up in a parry.

  The gray blade neatly sliced through his own sword.

  It must have been help from Melek that kept the sharp tip a mere palm’s breadth from cutting into Shimshon’s neck and chest. The force of that lunge made the other man stumble forward, just as surprised that the bronze blade had shattered so easily.

  Shimshon didn’t let his shock defeat him. He stabbed with half the cubit of bronze left in his hand. The shard punched through the leather and sunk into the soft flesh underneath. The spurt of hot blood made Shimshon blink. His foe growled and burbled, the red wetness slithering through the gaping leer of his mask.

  The enemies of Ammon die today.

  Shimshon let him sag to his knees, then kicked him over. Life gushed from ruptured blood lines, every pulse weaker than the one before, until his foe was as still as the wilderness around them.

  The horses frisked and stamped their hoofs. Soon enough, just like their owners, they went still. Trained animals. They did not run from danger or wander away when there was slack on their reins. They waited, ignoring the carnage.

  Catching his breath, Shimshon approached the second warrior and removed his helmet. The sweaty, grime-streaked, blood-spattered, pox-eaten face was just as ordinary as any. But the hair... It was even more majestic than his. Shimshon was proud of his fiery mane, but this man
’s locks were like spun gold.

  What kingdom did he hail from?

  Shimshon walked over to the first rider. He had died from the arrow. His hair was darker, but still quite pale. Eyes the color of old riverstone. A rare, rare sight in Ammon.

  I am not going to slake my curiosity today.

  But he had known all along that there could have been no common language with these warriors. Even if Shimshon had spoken that strange tongue of theirs, they would not have listened. Their bearing was that of absolute masters. Of people unaccustomed to anyone challenging their authority. Of people used to inspiring total fear in their subjects. Of people who used the sword for the simple pleasure of it.

  They would have brooked no questions from the likes of him.

  They had died for their pride—and for being here, in the land that belonged to his king…

  ...Rabba was gone.

  Shimshon did wish he had some answers.

  Ever since Iabesh, I’ve only had more and more questions come into my life.

  He could not unravel the knot in the pit of his soul. Not today. Still, he decided to try to learn what little he could.

  Carefully, he took his time stripping the soldiers of their dark, heavy outfits, prying straps of old, cracked leather open. Everything about the two dead riders was strange, foreign. Their clothes, their armor. Shimshon saw nothing familiar. He admired the design of their gear, built for endurance, wear and combat; it was as if they had been fashioned in a different world.

  The gray swords.

  With almost a tingle in his fingers, he picked one of those gleaming blades and admired the reflection of the setting sun on its smooth, clean surface. It weighed just as much as his own, and was extremely well balanced. Longer, too, so he had a better reach.

  But it wasn’t bronze. There was hardness in this metal that he had never seen before.

  Well, now he had two of them.

  He looked at the horizon, east, west. The clouds boiled and grumbled. There would be rain soon. It was growing darker with every breath, the evening was settling in. He should go back now. But he knew that whatever enemy had sent the two riders would discover their scouts missing and send another party. Another opportunity for Shimshon to learn about his foe.