Soosie’s head jerked down and up, and he reared up on his hind legs just as the spear completed its flight. It hit Soosie’s chest with the hollow sound of a stone pounding on wood, and she felt the horse jolt under her, suspended on his hind legs for a moment longer before he came down heavily on all fours.
Up in the mouth of the cave, Seesya cursed while several soldiers appeared next to him. A cluster of new spears shot out toward her. She felt Soosie writhing under her as animals did while dying, but rather than collapsing, he neighed in an almost human voice of sorrow and anger, and rose again on his hind legs. The cluster of spears hit Soosie’s chest with quick succession of thumping sounds, except for one spear that went clear through his neck, slightly off center, the pointy flinthead popping out through the patchy fur on his nape, halfway between the saddle horn and the fluff of hair on Soosie’s head, and came within a finger of Deborah’s chest.
With a final agonized neigh, Soosie fell over to the left. Deborah would have been crushed under his weight, but she leaped off and rolled on the ground.
When she raised her head and looked, Seesya was sliding down from the cave. Deborah wanted to run but knew he would be faster, and when he caught up with her, she would have no chance against him in a sword fight, having never engaged in one before. Her spear was stuck under Soosie. She pulled on it with both hands, but it wouldn’t come out.
Seesya reached the ground, drew his sword out of Miriam’s back, and started running toward Deborah.
She pulled the sling from her belt and searched the ground for a stone.
The soldiers in the mouth of the cave began to climb down, one at a time.
Her hand closed on a stone. She turned toward the stream and yelled, “Attack! Get your slings!”
Seesya sprinted toward her, already a third of the way over, his boots hitting the ground hard.
She fitted the stone in the pouch and let it hang down.
Halfway over, Seesya’s dark eyes focused on her, his bare chest white in the sun, he raised the red-stained blade above his head.
Deborah swung the sling slightly back and forth, weighing the stone while realizing with a jolt of fear that a miss would mean her death.
Focus!
Two thirds of the way over, his lips twisted in a satisfied grin.
He killed Father! And Mother!
Seesya’s sword rose high, angled slightly, ready to come down and chop off her head.
And Tamar!
Ten steps away, his teeth shone in the sun.
Murderer!
She rotated the sling once and let the stone fly. It hit Seesya in the chin, producing a sound like a breaking twig. His head cocked backward, followed by his upper body, whereas his legs continued running, causing him to flip and land on his back, right by her feet.
The soldiers slid down from the cave, one after the other. One of them tripped on Miriam’s body and fell, causing another one to fall as well.
“Patrees! Antippet!” Deborah glanced back, shouting at the top of her voice. “It’s an attack! Get ready!”
The shouting and splashing had stopped, but there was no response.
The first two soldiers were already running at her while drawing their swords. She didn’t run, but stared at Seesya to see if he was moving, but he remained where he had fallen, his sword resting on the ground by his side.
The soldiers slowed down, realizing their leader was down.
She counted six soldiers. They had already used their spears, and their horses were out of sight. Assessing the distance, she saw a chance to get across the stream before they caught up with her.
Deborah turned and ran. “Shoot your slings,” she yelled. “Shoot!”
Nothing happened. Where were the Edomite men?
“Shoot! Shoot!”
She kept running and glanced over her shoulder. The soldiers were chasing her at full speed, faster than she had expected.
The bushes lining the stream were fifteen or twenty steps away. Could she get there before one of the soldiers slashed her with his sword?
Deborah inhaled and shouted, “Shoot them! Now!”
One of the soldiers got ahead of the others, and as she glanced back, he leaned forward to close the distance, raised his sword, and swung it at her. She dodged the blade and fell down, colliding with the hard ground. He tripped on her, but regained his balance and came at her, his sword clasped with both hands, the blade pointing down, and drove it at her belly.
Rolling aside, Deborah felt the blade nick her arm as it stabbed into the ground. The soldier cursed, pulled the sword out, and swung it high, stepping after her, ready to chop down on her.
A stone hit him in the leg. He shouted in pain and stumbled.
Deborah used the delay to crawl away on all fours. “Aim at the chest,” she shouted. “Shoot!”
Finally, the stones began to fly over her while she kept crawling to the bushes. She heard the familiar whacks of stones hitting targets, the soldiers yelling in pain.
Once through the bushes, she rolled into the water, shocked by the coldness. The Edomite men stood shoulder to shoulder in the water. They picked stones from the bottom, fitted them in the pouches, rotated the slings, and shot the stones one after the other. They were doing exactly what she had trained them to do. Deborah felt a surge of pride. She got up, found a spot next to Patrees, and grabbed a stone from the bottom of the stream. Preparing to shoot, she glanced back quickly, worried about Kassite and Sallan.
The two old men were on their horses, sprinting away from Ein Gedi, heading back north.
Next to her, Patrees yelled a warning.
She turned back and saw one of the soldiers burst through the line of waist-high bushes, his sword high. There was no time to use the sling. She hurled the stone by hand at his face. He raised his left arm, deflecting the stone, but his momentary distraction gave her an opening to draw her short sword. She bent over to dodge his sword while aiming the tip of hers at a patch of skin right below his chest armor. She paused, unable to make her hand push forward to stab him, but as he splashed into the water toward her, the tip of her sword entered his gut. He screamed and slashed sideways with his own sword, the blade barely missing her bent back. They collided, twisted around, and fell together into the water, she on top of him, her weight pushing her sword deeper into his stomach.
He was a young man with a full beard, and his eyes stared up at her from underwater, wide with surprise. Deborah looked down at him, stunned by what had just happened. His lips moved, blood drifting from his gaping mouth like red smoke, trailing downstream. He was trying to say something, a word, which he repeated twice, three times, until she understood and yelled it out loud:
“Yahweh!”
His lips stopped moving, and guilt overwhelmed Deborah.
Do not kill!
She let go of the hilt of her short sword, which was lodged in the soldier’s gut up to the crossguard, and began to rise. The soldier’s hands burst out of the water, grabbed her throat, and squeezed hard. She tried to pull away, but his hands were big and strong, pressing her thin neck like a vice. He glared at her with hateful determination from underwater.
Deborah couldn’t breathe, and her vision blurred. Through the foggy terror of approaching death, she saw a glint of satisfaction in the soldier’s eyes, which ignited an explosion of rage inside her, for even as he was dying, this young man rejoiced at doing Seesya’s bidding—killing her so that Judge Zifron could complete his theft of Palm Homestead!
Drawing on her last reserve of strength, she harnessed her rage to make her arm move, and it did, as if by its own will. Her hand clasped the hilt of her short sword, pulled it from his gut, tilted the blade between his chest and hers, and drove it up into his chin under the bushy beard. The point of the blade slipped in easily, and she drove it in all the way until it could go no further.
Looking down at the soldier’s face underwater, Deborah saw the steel glisten in the back of his open mouth, followed by a thick
surge of blood. His legs thrashed wildly in the water one last time and stopped, but his fingers remained tight on her neck. She felt the world closing in and knew that if she fainted, her face would drop into the water, and she would drown. Letting go of the hilt of her sword, she grasped at his fingers with her wet, trembling hands and peeled them off her neck one by one until, suddenly, her chest expanded and air filled her lungs.
She sat in the bloody water next to the dead soldier, panting and dazed. The rest of the world slowly reappeared around her. Antippet was a few steps away, groping in the water for a stone. The others were busy shooting their slings or picking up stones.
Another soldier burst through the bushes, his sword up, ready to swing at Antippet, who rose with a stone in his hand and froze at the sight of death coming at him. Without thinking, Deborah leaped at the soldier’s legs, which were shielded in leather armor.
The soldier fell on top of her, pushing her into the water. She managed to get out from under him, but his boot kicked her in the head, stunning her. She clawed at the bottom of the stream, gained a bit of distance, and poked her head out for air. The soldier was still kicking frantically. He was in the water facedown while Antippet knelt on his back and hammered his head with a stone repeatedly in a frenzy of violent terror. The soldier’s helmet came off, and with each blow the bloody depression in the back of his head grew deeper.
Yet another soldier appeared in the line of bushes, but a stone from one of the men hit him in the face, knocking out his teeth. He screamed, dropped his sword, and turned around, running away with his hands on his face.
Antippet stopped hammering the dead soldier’s head and stood up. He fitted the bloodied stone into his sling pouch, rotated, and let it fly. The stone hit the escaping soldier in the upper back. He went down and didn’t move.
Looking over the bushes, Deborah saw only one more soldier coming at them. He must have been the last to exit the cave, and was now alone in the open area. He slowed down, looked at his fallen comrades, and stopped. Dropping his sword, he raised his hands in surrender.
Patrees and two others shot their slings at him. One stone hit his stomach, and he stumbled back, but caught his balance and turned to run.
“Let him go,” Deborah said.
Patrees found another stone, fitted it in his sling, and shot it. The stone flew in a long arc and hit the soldier in the leg, causing him to fall. The Edomite men dropped their slings and sprinted, shouting in rage.
Deborah could barely move. “Leave him alone,” she said, her voice too weak to be heard.
As the soldier was getting up, they attacked. He screamed while they pounded him with their fists.
“Leave him,” Deborah said, louder now.
They kept hitting the soldier, and Patrees picked up a large rock, lifting it high.
“Patrees!” She cupped her mouth and yelled. “Stop!”
They paused and turned in her direction.
Patrees kept the rock high, ready to drop it on the soldier’s head.
“Bring him here!”
They hesitated.
“Bring him to me! Now!”
Patrees dropped the rock. They dragged the soldier over. He fell to his knees at the edge of the stream, facing Deborah.
She stood in the water, barely able to keep upright. “What’s your name?”
“Mishneh of Ephraim,” he said, his voice trembling. “In the name of Yahweh, don’t let these Edomites kill me! Please, have mercy!”
“Didn’t you come here to kill me?”
There was nothing he could say to that. With a desperate moan, he bowed to her, pressing his forehead to the ground.
Patrees picked up a sword and aimed it at Mishneh’s back.
Deborah put up her hand, and Patrees paused.
The soldier looked at her, his eyes wet with tears.
“Do you know my name?” she asked.
“Everyone knows you,” he said. “You are Deborah, the girl who called for justice.”
“Go back to Emanuel,” she said. “Tell the people that Seesya ambushed me and my companions, that he attacked us from a cave without provocation, and that he killed an innocent leper woman, Miriam, who was more righteous than the highest priest. Tell the people that we killed Seesya and his soldiers because we had no choice. Tell them that I spared your life because I believe in justice.”
He nodded quickly and wiped the blood and dirt from his face with a shaking hand.
“Swear to me, Mishneh of Ephraim, that you will tell the truth to the people of Emanuel.”
“I swear it. I will tell them the truth.”
“Go in peace.” She gestured in the direction of Jericho. “And give offering to Yahweh for sparing your life.”
Still unconvinced of his good luck, he got up and stepped into the stream, walking backward. “Thank you. May God bless you with a long life.”
Deborah turned slowly, watching him.
Halfway across the stream, he stumbled on the body of the young soldier she had killed. Her sword remained stuck in his bearded chin.
Pointing at the body, she asked, “What’s his name?”
“Hashkem.” Mishneh recovered his balance and continued moving backward. “His name is Hashkem of Ephraim.”
Deborah nodded, heavy with sadness. Unlike Seesya, who had chosen to come here and murder them, the soldiers had no choice but to obey their master. Knowing the name of the man she had killed would enable her to pray for Yahweh’s forgiveness.
Out of the stream, near the plum tree, Mishneh turned and walked faster.
“Don’t break your oath,” she called after him. “Tell them what happened here.”
“I will,” he yelled, now running away. “I’ll tell them that Deborah is brave, just, and merciful!”
When Seesya’s only surviving soldier was gone, Deborah took a deep breath and exhaled with a sigh, feeling weak and nauseated. She stood in the middle of the stream, the water up to her knees running red with blood from the dead soldiers. Steeling herself, she gripped the hilt of her sword, looked away, and pulled. It wouldn’t come out, instead causing Hashkem’s body to move underwater toward her. She would have given up, if not for the Edomite men watching her. She gripped the hilt with both hands, placed her boot on the dead soldier’s face, and yanked the sword out. She rinsed the blood off the blade and sheathed the sword on her hip.
Stepping out of the water, she bent over and vomited.
What came out of her mouth was dark red, with pieces that looked like congealed blood. It resembled the stuff that had poured out of Judge Zifron’s young wife, Mazal, before her baby was born dead.
Deborah noticed that the whole front of her leather armor was red. Had she been stabbed by one of the soldiers? There was no pain yet, but a sense of doom came over her, accompanied by a fog of lethargy. Struggling not to faint, she took a few steps upstream, where the water was clear, dropped to her knees, and untied the straps over her shoulders that held together the chest and back sections of the armor. She splashed water on her bare chest and belly to clear off the blood and find the wound.
The front of her body was clean and whole. Not trusting her eyes, she ran her hands over her breasts, ribs, and stomach. There were bruises, but no wounds.
She splashed water on her back and looked over her shoulder and down, searching her back, feeling it with her hands. Other than the fresh scabs over the lacerations from the flogging, she found no injuries or fresh bleeding.
The only open cut was on her upper arm, and it wasn’t deep.
The red vomit, Deborah realized, consisted of the plum she had eaten just before the attack, and the blood on her chest had belonged to the dead soldiers.
She stood up, dizzy with relief, letting the water drip down from her body.
The Edomite men were standing at the water’s edge, their eyes glued to her breasts.
Deborah turned away, showing them her back, and struggled to put on the front and back sections of the armor. Normall
y, she would dress in private behind a rock or a bush. She would crouch and lean forward to get the back section to rest flat on her back, and press up the chest section with her knees while tying the straps over her shoulders. With the men standing behind her, lust burning in their eyes, she didn’t dare to crouch or bend forward.
No one moved, and the only sound was the rushing water of the stream. Deborah sensed that the men, charged up by the ecstasy of fighting and the euphoria of surviving, were kept back by mere remnants of self-restraint, which could evaporate as soon as they noticed that Kassite and Sallan were gone. She had to take control, but how?
She recalled Zariz’s advice: “You must pretend to be confident, or the horse will not respect you.”
“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped with as much disdain as she could muster. “Help me secure this damn armor!”
There was no response from the men.
Deborah held her breath.
The water splashed as someone walked into the stream behind her. She prepared to draw her sword, but felt the armor being lifted up to cover her back. It was Patrees, soon joined by Antippet. While she pressed the front armor to her chest, they quickly tied the straps over her shoulders.
“That’s better,” she said, turning to face them. “Patrees, take another man and ride north.” She pointed up the road. “Don’t hurt the Hebrew soldier—I gave him my word. In fact, take him a waterskin, some bread, and his sword so that he can survive on the road. Then catch up with Master and his old friend and bring them back.”
Deborah Calling Page 22