Ark

by J. J. Wilder

  So, as the caravan approached the walls of Larsa, Japheth took his leave of the caravan and found the gate captain.

  Japheth rattled the hilt of the second-hand short sword in its scabbard at his right hip, wishing for the thousandth time he had his sappara back, but wishes were futile, so he had to content himself with promises to buy one as soon as he could. Short swords and spears were fine, but they didn’t suit him, not like the sappara.

  A brawny Nephilim gate-captain stopped Japheth with a lowered spear. “What’s your business?”

  “I’m here to join the King’s army,” Japheth replied.

  “Have you fought before, little man?” The gate-captain was easily three feet taller than Japheth, with arms thicker than Japheth’s waist.

  “I’ve fought for Bad-Tibira, Uruk, and Kutallu,” Japheth answered, truthfully.

  “A mercenary,” the Nephilim spat the word like a curse. “Well, I know His Majesty always needs bodies to fill the front ranks, and I suppose you’ll do. Ask for Ulun at the barracks, down that way.” The guard jerked a thumb to show the direction meant.

  Japheth nodded and set off.

  Aresia was lost to him and, as Zidan had told him countless times, there was no way to get her back. He hadn’t been home in more than seven years, and he doubted his family even thought of him anymore. He could admit to himself that there had been a few times when he’d considered returning home, especially when work was scarce and his belly empty. But even the desire to see his beloved mother, Zara, was not enough for him to stomach the idea of groveling before Noah the righteous, Noah the unbendable.

  Japheth did miss his mother though. She’d always been the one to soften Noah’s harsh and unforgiving ways, and although she never subverted her husband, she always managed to find ways around his dictatorial edicts and immovable morals; Zara was kind and sweet, and still beautiful despite her age.

  Japheth found the barracks quickly, dismissing thoughts of home and his parents, standing rigid and silent as he waited for the mercenary troop captain to make his decision. A few questions about battles and fighting styles had Ulun convinced that Japheth wasn’t a novice. He was assigned to a phalanx of other mercenary humans, all destined to be front-rank battle fodder whenever the time came.

  As he set about getting a bunk and securing the proper equipment, he heard the other men discussing the coming orders. Japheth had noticed a sense of urgency in the barracks—men were sharpening blades, polishing mail, repairing footwear and rolling cloaks, packing pouches with extra rations of food; they were preparing for war.

  “What’s happening?” Japheth asked the man nearest him.

  “New, eh?” The man was short and barrel-chested, with a hard, round gut and two fingers missing from his left hand. “Uruk attacked Ur yesterday, so our glorious king—forever may he reign—has joined forces with Emmen-Utu of Bad-Tibira. We’re going to take Uruk while it’s empty of its best soldiers. Seems a cowardly tactic, but I don’t make the decisions.”

  Japheth was stunned. He’d just left that city a week ago, and he wondered if Zidan and the merchant had left before the attack; behind the walls of a besieged city was not a good place to be.

  He cursed under his breath—he’d inadvertently joined a war. His chances of getting to Sin-Iddim were now less than nil. He’d joined the Larsan army, and he couldn’t very well renege now. Like all the other soldiers, he began to gear up.

  Perhaps in the heat of battle he’d be able to forget Aresia.

  As it turned out, Uruk hadn’t sent their entire army to Ur.

  The Larsan army had spent two days gearing up, gathering supplies, readying the supply trains, and organizing for the march, and then had spent another week marching to Uruk.

  A day’s march from Uruk, scouts had returned claiming that forces were waiting for them outside Uruk, but their total numbers were unknown. What was supposed to be an easy raid on an empty city had suddenly turned into something much, much worse. Japheth was in the very first line of human warriors as the Larsan army approached Uruk.

  Dust kicked up under his feet, and his fist ached from clenching his shield strap so tightly. Heat blasted from the sun, bright overhead, sending sweat trickling down his temple and making the haft of his spear slippery in his grip.

  About a league from the city walls of Uruk, a massive line of Nephilim warriors waited for them, spears bristling between man-high rectangular shields. Sunlight glistened off burnished helmets and polished mail. Except for the tramp of sandaled feet, silence reigned.

  Sin-Iddim hadn’t accompanied the foray all the way to the battlefield outside Uruk’s walls, instead setting up a royal tent a few leagues away, sending his most senior general, a massive, dour Nephilim named Dagan. The Larsan general did not slow his army when he sighted the line waiting for them. He merely assessed the situation, ordered the siege equipment to stay back, and called the charge.

  Fear clamped down on his bowels as he jogged beside his line-mates. The man to his left smelled of piss, and the man on the other side looked ready to break formation any moment. Japheth roared a wordless battle-cry and began running slowly, knowing the rest would follow. On the field of battle, men needed only an example to find their own courage. The entire line sped forward to keep up with him, the line ragged and uneven, wide gaps between shields, and that was when he realized the entire front line was made of green recruits.

  This would be a slaughter.

  Japheth found himself calling on Elohim for protection, even though he had been trying to convince himself he didn’t believe in his father’s One God. Protect me, Elohim, if you are listening.

  That was all the prayer he had time for before the two front lines met with a thunderous clash of metal and flesh and bone and screams. Both of the men beside him died in the first clash.

  Immediately prior to the moment of impact, Japheth thrust his huge rectangular shield in front of him and couched his spear in his armpit, leaning forward into his shield and keeping his head behind it, his center of balance low. His whole body juddered as he collided with the opposite line; his spear shook and jumped in his grip, and he heard a wet squish and a grunt of expelled breath. Japheth bashed forward with his shield and yanked his spear backward, hearing a dull wet sucking sound as the blade was released by flesh.

  Sweat stung his eyes, and Japheth wiped it away with a forearm, glancing around him to assess the battle. Sin-Iddim had mustered five thousand warriors, which only represented a quarter of his total army’s strength; he hadn’t seen the necessity of sending every available man, since Uruk was supposed to be mostly empty of soldiers. The king of Uruk, however, had foreseen a potential ambush and had left behind what seemed to Japheth’s practiced eye to be nearly three thousand warriors. Uruk was outnumbered, but those few warriors left behind were the cream of Uruk’s crop, the doughtiest, hardiest, most seasoned soldiers, and they were acquitting themselves with a vengeance. Withing minutes, it was obvious that even though Larsa had the advantage of numbers, those bodies were mostly green and unseasoned by battle, and were quickly and easily hewn down by their more experienced opponent. Emmen-Utu’s army had joined the fray, turning the tide against Uruk; the battle was far from over, however.

  Four Nephilim warriors charged at him across the killing field, one of them a full head taller than the rest, making him truly giant even by Nephilim standards. Japheth’s heart stopped and his blood ran cold—one he could manage, maybe even two, but not four. He felt a presence beside him and turned to see Kichu standing next to him.

  Kichu grinned, a lopsided, feral snarl. “Let’s send them to Erishkigal, shall we?”

  Japheth felt a rush of relief at Kichu’s presence; he had no love for any Nephilim, but Kichu was as close to a friend among them as he had. He’d fought against Larsa next to Kichu, and they had saved each other’s lives several times. Japheth nodded at Kichu, swung his sappara in a circle, and tightened his grip on his shield.

  Kichu and Japheth stood side b
y side, a few meters between them. Kichu held an axe in each hand, swinging both at the same time in a scissor cut, one high, the other low, striking so fast Kichu’s opponent couldn’t track both strikes and took an axeblade to thigh. A single backward step accompanied a third swing, and the Uruk warrior was beheaded. Kichu swiveled sideways to dodge a spear thrust, hacked an axe down at the shaft, splintering it, and swung his other axe in a backhand blow.

  Japheth’s attention was torn away from Kichu’s deadly dance as he warded off blows from two opponents. He dodged and blocked with shield and sword, waiting for an opening and trying to split the pair of warriors. These two were seasoned warriors, however, and refused to be parted. Blow after blow rained down on Japheth’s shield, and his left arm was beginning to ache; he had to go on the offensive, or his shield arm would give out and he’d be defenseless. He heard Kichu grunting as he hammered with his twin axes, telling him he couldn’t expect any help from his Nephilim companion any time soon.

  Japheth saw a second sappara lying on the ground near his feet and made a snap decision. He bull-rushed the pair, swinging like a madman, causing them to back up under the sudden and unexpected onslaught. Japheth used the momentary reprieve to drop his shield and scoop up the sappara. With two blades in his hands, Japheth felt more confident. He feinted left, drawing one of the Nephilim forward. Now they were split, and Japheth darted between them, hacking with the bladed outside edge at one Nephilim and hooking the heel of the second with the dull inside edge of his other weapon.

  They both staggered and turned around to face him, but Japheth was already swinging, laying open a bare belly; Nephilim scorned any kind of armor, preferring to live or die by their martial skill. The other warrior, the largest one, charged Japheth, and he was forced to backpedal yet again, abandoning his attack.

  The remaining Nephilim warrior was armed with a single axe nearly as long as Japheth was tall, and the enormous warrior was swinging it one-handed, as if it were a child’s toy. Japheth had no intention of trying to block a blow from the weapon; if he tried, it would plow through his sword and cleave him in half without slowing—his only hope was speed.

  Unfortunately, the Nephilim warrior, though nearly ten feet tall and built like an aurochs, was not the powerful-but-slow kind. He was quick and agile, and nearly lopped Japheth’s head off before he had chance to so much as take a breath. He threw himself backward into the dirt, landing with such force that the wind was knocked out of him. Seeing stars and gasping for breath, Japheth rolled to the side to avoid the blade as it crashed into the earth next to him. Still trying to catch his wind, Japheth swept one sappara at the giant warrior’s heel and yanked with all his might. He barely moved the hulk’s leg. Laughter boomed out from above him, and Japheth saw the axe descending, as inevitable as sunset.

  Kichu’s smaller battleaxe intercepted the larger weapon, inches from Japheth’s skull. He rolled away immediately, more than willing to let Kichu handle the behemoth. As he found his feet, however, Japheth noted that Kichu’s left arm was curled against his side, bleeding from a gash along the bicep, so deep that bone showed white between ragged flesh-ends. The other warrior was unwounded and barely sweating, though the blade of his axe was coated in blood and his torso was spattered with it.

  Around him, the battle was already fading as Emmen-Utu’s and Sin-Iddim’s combined forces began to overrun the warriors left behind to defend Uruk. Japheth glanced around to see that Kichu’s battle was being watched by most of the surviving warriors. Japheth wanted to rush in and help Kichu, who was at a disadvantage in the battle, wounded and weak from blood loss, but he dare not—Kichu’s honor as a warrior and prince depended on the outcome of this fight.

  Kichu was fighting smart, ducking and weaving, avoiding rather than blocking, saving his strikes for a moment when he knew he could draw blood. He took a glancing blow to the thigh that staggered him, and the monster from Uruk grinned savagely, pressing his advantage. He bulled into Kichu and knocked the smaller warrior flying. Kichu rolled, dropping his remaining axe in the process. With a roar of triumph, the warrior stomped through the intervening space, axe descending for the killing blow.

  Japheth didn’t stop to consider his next action—honor be damned. Kichu had saved his life, now it was time to return the favor. Three running steps and a leap took Japheth airborne, a single sappara singing through the still air, the other dropped to focus his energy on making one blow count. The warrior never saw him coming.

  His head dropped to the dirt, eyes still blinking for a few heartbeats. Japheth landed, twisting his ankle painfully. He felt the tendon snap and tumbled to the earth next to the gore-seeping head.

  There was a brief, fraught silence, then a deafening roar from the armies circled to watch. Kichu was still tensed for the blow that never came. When he realized it wasn’t coming, he scrambled to his feet, saw the headless body bleeding into the hot sand, saw Japheth gripping his ankle, crimson-stained sappara still gripped in his exhausted hand.

  “You should’ve let me die, you stupid little bastard,” Kichu growled.

  “But I didn’t,” Japheth said past clenched teeth.

  Now that the adrenaline was leaving his system, his myriad aches and pains were making themselves known. On the battlefield, a handful of warriors from the conquering army were stepping around piles of bodies, prodding corpses with sword tips. Those wounded who might recover were pulled aside, and those too far gone to be saved were put out of their misery. Women carrying jugs of water were making their way across the battlefield, offering drinks of water, and officers were issuing commands.

  The battle was over; it had lasted maybe thirty minutes all told, and already vultures were circling in the sky overhead. The joint armies of Emmen-Utu and Sin-Iddim were storming into the city, knocking down the gates to plunder and loot, rape and pillage—considered payment for the troops, who were expected to take whatever they could carry out, be it goods, gold, slaves, or women.

  Japheth wanted none of it.

  He hadn’t died in the battle, he’d survived, and judging from the reaction of those gathered around him, he’d killed an important person in Uruk.

  “Who was that?” Japheth asked, kicking the head.

  Kichu laughed. “Of course you wouldn’t know. That was Amar, crown prince of Uruk. He was the only possible heir, and it is likely his father, the king, is either dead right now, or he will be very soon.”

  This meant that Sin-Iddim and Emmen-Utu had just ended the dynasty which had ruled over Uruk for centuries. It also meant there would be squabbling and bartering between the two kings over who would rule in Uruk, now that the throne was empty.

  Japheth found that he didn’t really care. Kichu had declined to join the pillaging of Uruk as well, and so he and Japheth were still on the battlefield, sitting on the side of an overturned chariot, sharing a wineskin, watching as vultures winged overhead and hopped from body to body. There were other kinds of vultures as well, the human kind, those beggars who followed an army to battle and waited for the carnage to end so they could loot the bodies of the slain.

  “What the in the name of all the gods are you doing here, Japheth?” Kichu asked. “And in Larsan armor, no less.”

  Japheth shrugged and said cryptically, “It’s where fate has taken me.”

  Kichu glared, helping him to his feet. “Give me a straight answer, little man.”

  Japheth cursed, propping himself up on his sword. “You want a straight answer, Kichu? All right, then, here’s an answer for you: I love your sister, but your demon-god of a father married her to the foulest pig who’s ever lived. I joined the Larsan army hoping to get close enough to Sin-Iddim to put a spear through his fat belly. It may not have allowed me to win back Aresia, but at least she wouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of that vile old demon.”

  Kichu rocked back on his heels, stunned. “I knew you and my sister were meeting frequently, but . . . love? You are a fool, Japheth.”

  Japheth struggle
d to keep his face free of emotion. “I don’t know for sure, but I’m fairly certain she agreed to marry Sin-Iddim to save me from your father. If that is so, then I could not allow that to go unrecognized. I may not have much, but I have my honor.”

  Kichu nodded. “Sin-Iddim has been after her for years. He asked Father for her hand in marriage at least twenty times, and every time Aresia kicked up such a fuss that Father always gave over, for he knows very well what Sin-Iddim is like.” Kichu swore. “So, she has feelings for you, eh? She wouldn’t agree to marry Sin-Iddim for just anything.”

  Japheth felt for the pendant. “He hates humans, as you well know, and learning his only daughter had lain with one was more that he could tolerate.” He hesitated a moment. “My father worships Elohim, and I was raised to worship Him as well, although I’m not sure what I believe any longer.”

  Kichu laughed, shaking his head. “You’re a bigger fool, Japheth, than I first imagined. Why would you admit these things to me?”

  “Because we each owe the other a dozen lives,” Japheth said, “and you cannot deny that.”

  Kichu looked down at the bloody sand between his feet, knowing the human was right; after all, Japheth had just saved his life mere moments ago.

  Japheth continued, “And because I don’t think you share your father’s hatred for Elohim or for humans. But I don’t care what you think. Whether I live or die no longer means anything to me.”

  “No? Then why did you fight so hard today to stay alive?”

  Japheth was wondering the same thing. He shrugged, saying, “Instinct, I guess. I may not care if I live, but it’s not in me to roll over and die either, especially not at the hands of some godless Nephilim dog.”