by Brian Godawa
“Why your vengeance for this Abram?” said Chedorlaomer.
“He brought down my kingdom,” said Amraphel.
“You are mad, Amraphel. I have never heard of this man, and I think I would have if he was powerful enough to take down the kingdom of Babel.”
Amraphel did not want to reveal all his secrets. “It is on our way back to Mesopotamia, your highness. It is a mere inconvenience.”
“No,” said Chedorlaomer. “I have had enough of our campaign. I am weary and my soldiers want to go home. I forbid it.”
Chedorlaomer left the room.
But Amraphel ran after him, spluttering.
“Wait, my lord!”
Chedorlaomer would not stop walking. He was done with this silliness.
“It is not my kingdom alone that is on the chopping block. It is your kingdom as well.”
“Spare me your desperate lies,” said Chedorlaomer.
“I am a liar, my lord. I am indeed. But I assure you, in this, I am not lying. There was a prophecy in the stars many years ago at the beginning of my kingdom that all my diviners and astrologers agreed upon in their interpretation, which as you know, is next to impossible with those half wits.”
Chedorlaomer kept walking, but his interest was piqued as he looked at Amraphel, who continued to splutter and cough his way through his argument with his damaged voice.
“The prophecy was that this Abram’s seed would slay great kings, possess their land, and inherit the earth.”
Now Chedorlaomer stopped to look into Amraphel’s bloodshot yellowing eyes. He could never tell with this sleazy serpentine figure what was true or false. But it was on the way, and if Amraphel was so bent on it, then let the crazy monster go after his phantom. Maybe he would be lucky and Amraphel would be killed trying.
“Granted,” said the king. “On one condition.”
“Name anything, my lord. Anything.”
“You take a bath and groom yourself. You are a despicable pig, and you reek like excrement.”
“Yes, my lord,” sniveled Amraphel, scratching his lice-ridden head. He did not think he smelled so bad. But he had better obey.
The king concluded, “Gather up the booty and captives from the cities. We leave for Mesopotamia by way of Bashan.”
Amraphel bowed his eight-foot frame to the floor, kissing Chedorlaomer’s boots. “Thank you, your majesty. Thank you. You will not regret this.”
“You had better hope not,” said the king, and he left Amraphel on the floor, still groveling.
Chapter 50
Abram was watching over his personal squad of over three hundred warriors born under his household and trained in the art of war. They practiced in a field with wooden substitutes for weapons, as they did every day for hours on end.
They were an elite squad to whom Uriel had taught some of the secrets of the way of the Karabu at Abram’s request. He knew this fierce land would require fierce righteousness to stay alive. Though he had complete confidence in El Shaddai’s promise to protect him, that did not eliminate their need to be prepared.
An ibex horn announced a visiting outsider to the camp. Abram and Uriel left the warriors and found their way to the meeting place near the outskirts. It was the announcement of an important visitor; so all the elders were required to show up along with the patriarch.
When he arrived, a curious Sarai and Eliezer met him. They all knew what this was probably about, the war of the Eastern kings against the five cities of the plains. Lot had warned Abram about it. They suspected that this was the news of what happened.
Abram and Uriel entered the tent. The thirty or so elders surrounded a little table where a wearied messenger was gulping water from a goatskin. Abram saw that he was quite beat up. He had a gash across his forehead and a bloodshot eye with bandaged hands.
The messenger looked up at Abram. They knew each other from past trading.
“The cities of the plain have been defeated,” he said. “Your nephew Lot is one of the captives, and the armies of the east are already on their way back toward Mesopotamia by way of the Jordan through Bashan.”
It was standard practice for victorious armies to take their spoils of war — men, women, and children — to be slaves, as well as gold, silver, and other wealth to compensate the soldiers.
But this was too much for Abram to hear.
He marched out of the tent in anger.
Uriel followed him in a rush.
“Abram, do not do it,” said Uriel. “Chedorlaomer’s forces are several hundred thousand strong.”
Abram said, “So they will be slow enough for us to catch up then.”
“I am sure that will be encouraging to your three hundred warriors,” said Uriel.
Abram said, “I will ask the Amorite brothers to aid us.”
“Okay, that gives you a couple thousand — against three hundred thousand warriors.”
“I guess you will have to make up the difference then, archangel.”
Uriel got mad. “Here we go again. You are as hard headed as your ancestor Noah was!”
“Runs in the seedline, I guess,” said Abram smirking.
Come to think of it, thought Uriel, Enoch and Methuselah too.
“Abram,” said Uriel, “Testing El Shaddai is not the same as having faith in him. Confidence is one thing, but pride goes before a fall.”
Abram stopped and glared at Uriel. “What do you suggest I do then, leave my nephew to rot in slavery in some foreign pagan city?”
Uriel said, “You mean, like Sodom?”
“That is not fair,” said Abram and he kept walking.
Uriel knew he had lost the battle. Abram would not listen to reason.
Abram arrived at the training field and announced to the warriors, “Practice is over! Suit up! Prepare your weapons for battle!”
One of the captains approached Abram. “What are your orders, master?”
“We are going on a rescue mission.”
Abram met with the brothers, Mamre, Eshcol, and Aner, and they agreed to help Abram on his rescue mission. It was not in their village’s personal interest, but Abram had proven such a vital part of their protective community, they would trust him with their lives.
Since the odds were great, all three brothers went along in order to command the men in what could be a difficult strategy. They left a few of their number behind for basic protection of the villages.
Several thousand of them left the next day in the early morning before any of the families arose. They said their goodbyes the night before.
But not Sarai. She was up with Abram and watched Eliezer help him saddle up on his camel with preparations.
Sarai held Abram tight and whispered in his ear, “Come back with him or without him. I love my nephew, but you are my life.”
“And you are mine,” said Abram. “But if El Shaddai is to grant Lot my inheritance, then I must try to save him.”
Sarai turned to Uriel and said sternly, “Do your job, guardian.”
“I get that a lot,” said Uriel. “Trust me, if I do not, you will be the least of my worries.” He gave a quick glance heavenward and moved on.
Abram and Sarai kissed and he left with his band of warriors for their long journey northward to catch the armies of the east.
Chapter 51
Abram traveled along the rich Jordan Valley at a fast pace with his regiment of two thousand soldiers. They did not know how far ahead Chedorlaomer was, but they were soon able to discern from the camp remains that they were getting closer.
Within four days they had caught up with their enemy targets just outside Damascus in the area of Hobah.
Though the eastern armies outnumbered Abram, it was not the entire armed forces that Abram was going to have to fight. Captives of war and booty are the last in line of the train of returning armies. Civilians and the baggage of spoils are too slow to keep up with the soldiers’ march so they are put at the back with a contingent of warriors to protect them. The main
bulk of the army then is far ahead in its journey.
Thus, there were only five thousand guards with the baggage train of several thousand captives.
Because of his obsession with finding Abram, only King Amraphel stayed behind in the baggage train with Lot. Against Chedorlaomer’s own orders to keep moving, Amraphel set up an extended camp in order to send forays into the area looking for Abram or the hierodules who sought him.
He would not have to look for long.
Abram found him.
Abram had split his forces into two divisions and attacked at night in a wedge formation. The soldiers were blindsided and surrounded. Despite their superior numbers, they were awash in confusion and fell quickly to the spears and battle-axes of Abram’s coalition forces.
As the battle raged, Abram made his way to find his nephew. Uriel followed close behind, keeping watch over his human ward. Uriel became so busy blocking random soldiers’ attacks that he did not hear the sound of the royal carriage wagon racing its way out of the melee, straight for them.
The wagon was an enclosed cedar wood carriage, embroidered with gold and silver, which could only be carrying a king or other royalty. It was led by a six-horse team whipped into a frenzy to get out of there.
Uriel yelled Abram’s name only moments before the six-horse team trampled Uriel into the earth below their hoofs on their way out of the battle.
Abram had heard him and jumped out of the way, just in time to grab onto the back of the coach as it fled the scene.
He knew who was in that royal carriage. It had to be Nimrod, his old nemesis. He had recognized the hunter figure ensign on the wagon.
Uriel picked himself up from the muck. Archangels could not die, but it would take some time for Uriel to heal after saving Abram from a worse fate to the human body.
But Uriel was not interested in healing. He found the closest animal he could to join the chase. It was a camel. He limped up to it, crawled on top and kicked his way after the runaway carriage.
What caught him by surprise were the ten heavily armed paladin warriors of the East who came up from behind him charging after the royal carriage on their horses. They whisked past him in a whirlwind of dust.
He mumbled a prayer, “El Shaddai, you would not want to transform this camel into a stallion, would you? It might help your cause a bit.”
No transmogrification was forthcoming. El Shaddai did not tend to work that way and Uriel knew it, so he continued on with his pokey dromedary transport. He winced in pain and readjusted his dislocated shoulder.
Abram was having a hard time hanging onto the carriage. It was going at full speed on a bumpy off-road path near the edge of the King’s Highway on a plateau with two hundred foot cliffs.
I am too old for this anymore, thought Abram. He remembered stories of his ancestor Methuselah wielding a battle-axe at nine hundred years old. Times were different then.
But there was no time to complain; he had to save his nephew.
He looked in a window and saw Amraphel with the bound form of Lot.
He climbed up to the top of the carriage and saw the driver whipping the horses to maintain their frenzied speed.
He needed to get to the driver to stop him.
But that was not going to happen, because suddenly from the side of the carriage, a boney wraithlike creature climbed up and stood in his way.
It was Amraphel.
In his hand, a serpentine sword with a split tongued tip.
He was a decomposed deathly looking shadow of how Abram remembered him. But Abram knew his nemesis with certainty when he looked in his eyes. And that nemesis was still much taller and much stronger than Abram.
Amraphel finally spoke, “God licker, you have been the bane of my existence. And now, finally, I will be the bane of El Shaddai’s.”
Abram drew his sword and took his Karabu stance.
There was not much room to move on this carriage top.
The carriage suddenly hit a rock and both of them had to catch themselves to keep from falling off.
Abram looked down over the side to see the carriage was riding close to the edge of the plateau. If he fell over that side, he would not merely hit the ground, he would fall an additional several hundred feet down the side of the cliff to his death.
He gripped his sword.
Amraphel attacked like the madman he had become.
Abram was barely able to keep up with the giant’s onslaught, which was sloppy, but forceful and relentless.
Abram would not last long, for Amraphel was stronger, a lifetime of fury and hatred pouring into his every move.
Abram was wearing down, and was still on the defensive.
In the carriage compartment below them, Lot struggled to free himself from his bonds. He had heard what was happening above him, and was hoping he would be able to join the fight.
But the bonds were not giving way. And it did not help that he had two less fingers to manage.
Above the carriage, Amraphel continued his battery of blows until finally, he made ringing contact and Abram’s sword flew over the side of the carriage down the cliff, and Abram fell to his back.
Amraphel smiled in victory. His rotted teeth were full of grime.
Then to Abram’s surprise, he threw his own sword away. He took off his gloves and cast them over the side as well.
Abram knew why. Death by sword was too easy and unsatisfying for Amraphel. He wanted to strangle Abram with his own skeletal hands to feel the life force leave him.
Abram steadied himself as the rocketing speeding carriage hit another bump along the path.
Amraphel seethed with bile, “All my life has come down to this one moment. El Shaddai has taken from me everything. And now I can take from him everything.”
Amraphel knelt down to reach Abram’s throat. But in his euphoria of triumph, he had let his guard down. He did not notice Abram curl his legs up and place his feet at Amraphel’s gut.
Abram grabbed the edge of the carriage to steady himself and heaved with all he had left in him.
Amraphel flew backward and hit the carriage driver with such force that he fell off his seat through the horse harness and was crushed beneath the wheels of the carriage.
Unfortunately, the driver did not let go of the reins until he was under the wheels. The horses were thrown by the bizarre twisting of the reins and they jerked back and forth at odds with each other. This caused the carriage to rock back and forth.
Abram held on.
Amraphel was tangled up in the driver’s boot, trying to hold on.
“ABRAM!” he croaked through his dry mouth, “Damn your god!”
But the rocking increased, and Abram knew the carriage was going to flip over any moment.
He saw his chance and he rolled off the side of the carriage just as it almost tipped onto the flat ground.
But it did not land there. It ended up rolling back and flipping onto the cliff side of the plateau with a big crash and slid off the side of the precipice, pulling the horses and Amraphel with it down into the rocky crags below.
With Lot.
Abram blacked out when he hit the ground and rolled. When he came to, he knew he had probably broken a few ribs. He coughed and tried to get up.
He limped to the edge of the plateau, murmuring to himself, “My nephew, my nephew.”
He looked and saw the shattered remains of the carriage smashed to shreds four hundred feet below. Nothing survived that fall.
He could see the crumpled broken corpse of Amraphel, the ghost who had haunted him for so long, finally and utterly dead. The giant who had become a monster and had ruled the earth with a rod of iron had finally met a most undignified ending crushed at the bottom of a rocky plateau. Though Abram knew what awaited him at the Judgment would be far more painful and everlasting.
But it was not satisfaction to Abram, because he had not saved his nephew. He had failed.
“Lot, forgive me. I failed you.”
Abram wept
on his knees.
He heard a voice from behind him say, “Uncle.”
He turned to see Lot stumbling toward him.
In the midst of the fight, Lot had managed to jump out the side door before the carriage careened off the ledge. But Abram was too occupied with his enemy to notice.
“My nephew!”
They hugged and both groaned in pain because of the bruises from their falls. Then shared a laugh together — which caused more pain in their bruised ribs.
“Let us find our way back to my forces,” said Abram. “They will have slaughtered the enemy by now.”
They turned from the precipice to leave, but were stopped short by the presence of ten Gibborim of the east surrounding them on their mighty steeds.
“Uncle, it looks like we are the ones about to be slaughtered.”
The lead warrior pulled his horse up closer. It snorted as if the horse itself was full of the same hatred as its rider.
Abram and Lot could not back up without falling four hundred feet to their deaths.
The lead warrior drew his sword. He wanted his prey to experience fear before he disemboweled them.
Abram sighed. “El Shaddai, this nameless unimportant idolater is about to kill your seedline.”
Almost as soon as he said the words, everyone’s attention was taken by a lone riderless camel trotting right across their paths, right past the lead warrior. It gave its silly sounding camel bellow that would have made Abram laugh if he was not facing death.
Such a simple silly animal interrupting such a somber moment.
But it was not any silly camel.
It was Uriel’s silly camel.
The throat of the lead warrior burst open in blood, pierced by an arrow from behind.
The other warriors turned to face their intruder as he walked out from the darkness toward them. Uriel dropped his bow, whipped off his cloak into the wind, and drew double swords.
The first two Gibborim attacked at once.
Their black steeds trampled toward him with fury.