Day of War

by Cliff Graham

  Another arrow, another target, then another. Josheb and Eleazar kept pace with him, waiting to get closer to the enemy before using their weapons. Shammah loosed arrow after arrow until the quiver was empty. He was the only man in David’s army who could shoot accurately while running.

  “Close up!” Josheb shouted. The three had fought together so many times that they operated by instinct. Hundreds of enemy soldiers were moving toward them now, probably thinking that they could salvage something from the defeat by killing these isolated warriors.

  Shammah let Josheb slip in front and to the left of him while Eleazar covered their left flank—a perfect wedge, with Shammah taking the right flank. They would burst through the line of charging soldiers and separate, with each drawing enemies toward himself. For the crash through the line, they would need heavier weapons, like —

  “Weapon change! Pikes!” Josheb shouted.

  Shammah tossed aside his bow and pulled the pike shafts from the leather quiver on his back. The Three did not use armor bearers because none could keep up with them. Shammah was the biggest of them, and his style of the abir was built on strength, so he carried the extra weapons for the group.

  Shammah tossed a pike across to Eleazar and handed one to Josheb. Then he held the tip of his own out as he ran through the night, approaching the fleeing soldiers bearing down on them, and he thought of his father’s words. Strength, courage, honor; love those things, my son. Walk humbly.

  The wood was cold in his grip. The enemy was close.

  Only what is necessary and nothing more.

  The thunderous sound of two hundred more angry warriors racing across the camp split the night air. Benaiah’s men smashed into the remnants of the Amalekite perimeter like a herd of hungry predators, desperate for vengeance, cutting down soldier after terrified soldier like so many stalks of wheat.

  For a moment, the foreign army looked as though it might make a stand. The Amalekite soldiers to Benaiah’s right had not been drinking, and most seemed able to find their arms. But their resistance didn’t last long—under the murderous hate of David’s army, every Amalekite abandoned his position and fled.

  The enemies stumbled and blundered over cookware and packs. Livestock bleated. A few men lashed out at their attackers in their blind fear and killed each other instead. Those too drunk to understand what was happening swung their swords at any shape. Smoke was so thick that many Amalekites thought they were fighting shadowy phantoms from the netherworld. The war cries of the attackers were in coordinated and perfect unison, as David had trained them, giving the impression of a vast force of many thousands of possessed souls.

  Benaiah’s men surged forward until they came to the collapsed war tent Joab’s men had surrounded. David’s army was now concentrated in the middle of the camp. The captains met in the center, next to the elated families. To the amazement of them all, not a man had been lost yet.

  Benaiah and Joab, panting, bloody, knelt next to a dying fire and began to reform the attack. Benaiah had not expected such resounding success. Even so, the fragments of the shattered Amalekite force had been pushed and channeled into the canyon where the Three held position. Brushing the ground at his feet clear, he hastily set up several sticks and pebbles, representing the positions of all the forces as well as he could, with Joab’s assistance. Joab’s replies to Benaiah’s questions were terse, and Benaiah sensed that something was wrong. But this was not the time for it. When Joab answered too vaguely on the number of men attached to the north flank, Benaiah yelled at him to focus.

  In a sudden rage, Joab punched him in the face.

  Stunned, Benaiah could only stare dumbly. Enraged, before he could stop himself, Benaiah kicked Joab’s knee with such force that Joab fell.

  Benaiah tried to hold himself back, but the kick had felt so good he wanted to kick Joab again, to bury his foot into Joab’s throat. He wanted blood—wanted it so badly that he didn’t care about the shrieking women and children watching them fight. He only wanted to pummel this arrogant man until his face poured blood.

  The two of them scuffled like rabid dogs, without strategy or effectiveness, fueled only by hatred for the other. After several violent seconds, a powerful arm grabbed Benaiah’s tunic and jerked him away from Joab.

  Joab, embarrassed for the second time that night, glared at Benaiah with such loathing that Benaiah almost shook off the hand restraining him and attacked again.

  “Stop this now! Control yourselves! You’re behaving like children!” It was David’s voice, and David’s hand that held him, no doubt concerned that Benaiah might kill his nephew. “Son of Jehoiada, I order you to control yourself!”

  Benaiah felt his control returning. Battle lust made a man do foolish things, made him kill and rape without knowing what he was doing. But Benaiah had been trained to resist it, and now he had failed to do so. He thought of Sherizah and how close she must have been. Had she seen the fight? He wanted to see her so desperately that he cursed discipline and order.

  David, still holding tightly to Benaiah’s waist, spoke urgently into his ear: “Benaiah, come with me.”

  Benaiah let David lead him a short distance away, near a pile of enemy dead to which the men were dragging corpses.

  “Your wife is not among the captives. Abigail said she and two others, Deborah and Rizpah, were taken.”

  Benaiah blinked. Sherizah gone. Yahweh had taken her from him once more.

  “We need to press the attack here through the night, but you may take Eleazar and Josheb and find the women,” David said.

  “What about your bodyguard?”

  “Yahweh protects me this night.”

  Benaiah wanted to add something about Yahweh and his protection but resisted the urge. “Did the women see who took them?”

  “A large man. Said he had light skin and looked like an Egyptian. Said he was a cubit taller than any of us and carried a spear larger than a weaver’s beam.”

  Benaiah held his breath. A large man. An Egyptian. He saw hot sand and the sea, dark visions of a massive warrior, the pharaoh’s cold stare, maidservants mocking him. It could not be the same man. “Women exaggerate.”

  “It was Abigail. I believe her.”

  He held up his war club, covered in the blackened blood of the first assault. David eyed it a moment. “Remember the covering,” David said.

  “Yahweh has left me! I don’t want him or his covering! What god allows a man’s family to suffer and his children to die?” The words had poured out of him, and Benaiah was surprised at the depth of anguish in his voice. The group near them had gone quiet. A piece of burning wood nearby snapped, sending a shower of sparks up.

  Benaiah regretted his words immediately. This was not the time to shout and moan like a woman, not when a battle was raging and his wife needed to be rescued. Hurry up, you fool! They are getting away! Why aren’t you moving? He ordered himself to move, but his legs felt like bronze weights. He stared at the ground.

  David was still beside him. “I did not know of your suffering, my friend, but I know that Yahweh is for you and not against you,” he said.

  “You are very sure of that? Even after everything?”

  “Even after everything.”

  Benaiah took several slow breaths. “I fear that Yahweh will never come to me again for what I have done. I did not —”

  “I know, brother. I have not always walked with Yahweh either. I have left his council for my own paths and live with that every day. I want to blame myself for all of this,” he gestured toward the captives, “but I know that is not what he wants. He only wants me to return to him. Stay focused, Benaiah. You will get her back. Yahweh has promised it, but you need to hurry. Men who waste time lose everything dear to them.”

  Benaiah started to speak, but his voice caught and refused to leave his throat. Both men stared at the rocks at their feet, listening to the sounds of the battle around them, knowing they needed to keep moving but taking this moment.

 
David raised his hand and put his palm gently on Benaiah’s forehead. In a soft voice, he prayed for Benaiah to accomplish his mission. He prayed for covering in the day of war.

  When he was done, they embraced. David stood with him patiently. Benaiah’s muscles pulsed now with raw energy. He took a long breath, tasted the smoke on his tongue, washed it with water from the pouch — and then ran. He took great strides past the freed captives, the mercenaries, the celebrating families. The other men were allowed a moment to find their loved ones in the group. Tears, laughter, screams of joy and delight, fathers tackling children, hardened warriors unashamed of their relief and their tears. He looked at the children, laughing and jumping, and imagined seeing his daughters among them as he ran past. Not there, Benaiah. Neither is Sherizah. Even if I get her back, she will never come to me again.

  One of the men had swept a little girl into the air and kissed her face, causing the girl to shy away from the fearsome and bloody warrior she did not recognize as her own father. The man kept kissing her and clutching her hair and the little girl shrieked in fear, but the man did not care. He kissed her through his blood-soaked beard and held her with powerful arms. A woman stood next to him clutching his waist, as if she wanted him to do the same with her.

  They were behaving like fools, and it was the most beautiful thing Benaiah had ever seen. He turned and raced toward the gaping canyon rising in the night ahead of him, thinking of his wife’s beautiful dark hair.

  The battle had slowed because the Amalekites were in full flight. David and his men would pursue the Amalekites throughout the night, and most of the men, no longer needed in the fight, were now preparing. Provisions were passed out and water bags were filled. Benaiah passed a soldier, nearly hidden in the dense smoke, shouting orders in a foreign tongue and carrying an armload of weapons. It was Keth, performing the task that would receive no glory but was indispensable.

  Remember the covering.

  The black war club glinted in his hands.

  Karak eased himself slightly over the top of the pile of bodies still warm from life and now lying in a heap. All of his men were dead or dying, or soon would be. All of them. An entire army gone because of his foolishness.

  The wine still made his mind murky, but the cold air helped him regain his alertness. He would never be able to return to his own lands. He would be the brunt of laughter, called a woman, and forced to haul water from the village well. That would never happen. Whatever honor he had left, he needed to preserve for the next life.

  Karak had watched the battle from under the pile for an hour. He’d seen the Hebrew general forming a perimeter of men around the ruins of Karak’s command tent, moving in perfect discipline and easily slaying Amalek’s drunken warriors. He watched as his women captives were lost, along with all of his war prizes and wine — so hard-won but gone forever now. Karak had no men to take them back with.

  Lying hidden in the pile of bodies, Karak had caressed the hilt of his dagger, feeling its gentle weight, and felt a hot desire to bury it in the neck of the Hebrew war chief. He waited while the pile of bodies grew around him — all of them his men, men he had failed just as they had failed him. He saw two of the Hebrew commanders fight one another, only to be separated by their leader. It was unlike men of such discipline to do that.

  He kept his face low and still as the two generals stood next to him and discussed the escape of the Egyptian. Karak’s anger rose as he listened.

  The two men stopped talking. One of them walked away. The other stood silently for a moment. Karak could hear his breathing and was able to watch from the edge of his vision as the tall warrior waited in the smoke and gloom. Then he heard him bound away in a steady stride. Karak was alone again.

  He raised his head slightly until he could see the huddle of women and children, some of them still frightened and weeping, others greeting their men with joy. Behind him, other Hebrew warriors were holding their positions in the perimeter to keep security, showing remarkable discipline for not charging into the group of captives. He thought again that they were hard men, good fighters, a worthy enemy to lose to. He should have been prepared.

  And then something odd happened. For the first time, Karak felt unsure of himself. He feared that he would probably die this night.

  He shook his head violently, blamed the wine for these mad thoughts. Why should he fear death? His people believed that there was an eternal war. All men went there—or at least all brave men who had captured plunder and killed their enemies. Some would rule with the gods, and war would rule them all. And now he saw how to prepare himself for a place of honor in that eternal war. He would prove he was not inept. He would kill the Egyptian and the Hebrew commander.

  Karak saw the Hebrew commanders kneeling and talking.

  One of the men ran off, leaving the other alone, who then rose up and turned in his direction, the sword on his back highlighted against the flames. It was far too large a weapon for a man that size to carry. The Egyptian might have wielded it, but not a man of normal size like this Hebrew.

  This was the Hebrew commander. Karak could sense it as one could sense all men of authority when they came near.

  The Hebrew general studied the darkness. Karak waited. The man eventually turned his back to Karak, watching a company of his men resuming the pursuit of the remnants of Karak’s army. It was now or not at all.

  Karak prayed to his gods, begging them for entrance into the eternal war if he killed the Hebrew, hoping it would be enough, in their judgment. If he could just make the eternal war, he would prove himself. If he could just make the eternal war …

  He sprang to his feet, shoving off the bodies that had covered him, and stumbled down the pile toward the Hebrew. Karak funneled his anger into speed, driving his sloppy legs as hard as he could and forcing blood into his veins. The Hebrew would hear him at any moment. He needed to close the distance quickly.

  Karak pulled the war axe from his back and held his dagger low in his other hand. A few more paces. He raised the axe and swung, but as he did he grunted. The Hebrew must have heard him, for he collapsed out of the way as the blade sliced across the air next to his head.

  Karak could not slow his momentum. His hands vibrated as the axe struck not the Hebrew warlord’s head but rocky ground. He thudded against a surprised woman who had been sitting next to the Hebrew, and they crashed to the earth together. He felt her body take the force of his impact hard.

  Soft flesh pressed against him as they rolled together. But the Hebrew warlord would be regaining his balance and drawing the enormous blade from his back. Karak pushed the screaming woman away and rolled.

  To the left!

  The Hebrew’s sword nicked his thigh. He snatched a handful of burning embers from the nearby fire and threw them, feeling the sizzle of charring flesh in his palm. It worked: the Hebrew had to raise his arm in defense, and Karak lashed out with his axe in a low swipe. It caught the leather straps of the man’s sandals but did not hit flesh.

  But the Hebrew was fast! Before Karak could regain balance to swing again, the man darted to his left and brought the sword down hard onto Karak’s shoulder. Karak lurched. Blood splattered his face. The cut was deep, nearly severing his left arm, and now it hung useless.

  Karak shouted curses, calling on his gods through the pain, his eyes suddenly stung by thick smoke, and he had to move again quickly because the man was charging too fast. He brought the axe up with his good arm and blocked the next blow. But he could not stop the next and felt hot iron slide into his belly under his raised war axe.

  He looked down at the sword in his gut. It was a remarkable blade, a huge weapon. No man should have been able to wield it with such speed; it was simply too large. Karak was angry. He could feel blood burbling into his throat and his ears ringing. He gagged, spat it out, watched it drip down the sword. The Hebrew general was looking into his eyes.

  Karak smiled at him. He was grateful for that. They would be fighting in the afterlife in
the eternal war. There would be no end of their battle, and Karak would be waiting for him. The man who’d killed him had auburn hair. His features were harsh and rugged, his beard cut short, and he had the amber-colored eyes of a lion. There was no mercy in them.

  Karak gurgled again, the ringing growing louder, his head beginning to swim. He felt the cold of death begin to take over. The war would be good on the other side. The war is there, and I will wait for him, he thought. Pain ebbed, but then as his vision slipped away into blackness, the eyes of a lion bore into him.

  He gasped again, terrified.

  David watched the tattooed warrior drift away. When he was dead, David pulled the blade out and knelt on one knee, suddenly overcome with weariness. It would pass. It always passed.

  It was late. More time had passed since the initial attack than he’d realized. Dogs were coming out of nowhere to ravage corpses. He said something aloud. An order. But what? What had he just said? He shook his head.

  Goliath’s blade was warm.

  Still so much smoke. The wives are safe now. Finish it and we’ll all go home.

  He wiped his brow with his dirty, matted tunic.

  Find the men.

  David stood back up. The weariness was gone now, and he gave thanks aloud. “Thank you, Yahweh. You train my arms for war. Forgive the sins of my men and give them power where they fight, this moment, this hour. Do not forget us, do not forget your promise.”

  He needed to find his men. He blinked and focused. Joab was rushing his troops forward to cover the flank of the Amalekites’ retreat to make sure no man escaped. It awoke him from dreaming. Energy surged back into him. He gave thanks again. The day was not over yet. Benaiah would be near the Three now.

  Yahweh, cover them.

  An arrow swished past Josheb’s head just as he tripped the next soldier coming at him. He had settled into a rhythm of lunging forward, and if the enemy was off balance he would press it—if not, he would retreat three steps in order to draw the enemy soldier in. In the darkness, he could barely make out Eleazar and Shammah doing the same.