I Shall Slay the Dragon!

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “Is that what he is?” Shimshon asked, not looking at the smiling man. “The enemy?”

  “If you cut your hair, we are lost. Doomed.”

  The shofarim screamed.

  The battle raged on.

  Shimshon wondered if he could reach Rami in time to wrestle the knife away from him, but the prophet stood a good distance away and he was sober and grim. There was no way Shimshon could save Dlila. Not with force.

  Around the Gilo, with every breath, men were dying by the scores.

  I always used to fear fear itself, I just never gave it a name, Shimshon thought, his sudden rush of anger dissipating, replaced with cold clarity and a deep sense of purpose. “Let her go, Iermiah. If you do not, I will let the whole of Israel burn. I will let the serpent win. I swear, by Melek and Elohim and every other god.”

  Their eyes locked. The prophet’s face slacked. He lowered the knife and released the Plishtit. On wobbly feet, she moved toward him.

  Shimshon saw the smiling man watching her like a Geva hawk. Shimshon quickly stepped forward, blocking his path. Dlila rushed into his arms, hugging him fiercely. Her hot tears dripped on his tunic.

  “Prince Gog wanted me to—”

  He silenced her with a finger to her lips. “If you ask me, I will do it.”

  She looked at him with those beautiful carob eyes, time going still. There was no longer a battle in Iehuda or Biniamin, there were no rivers of blood and brimstone gushing around the City of David, there was no thunder of screams and feet on the slopes of Moriah.

  “Destroy the beast,” she whispered.

  A piercing shriek whipped over the hilltop.

  The smiling man was no longer smiling. He was snarling, rushing forward.

  Shimshon pushed Dlila away, hard. When the enemy was almost on top of him, he sidestepped and let the man’s weight carry him on, tripping him. Then, they were wrestling on the ground, Aaron’s Rod forgotten on the beaten, muddy soil. For a small person, the serpent’s follower was viciously strong. Shimshon realized he was gritting his teeth, spitting with effort, fighting someone with equal power.

  So close to the Hebrew temple and yet, he almost matches my strength, Shimshon thought, trying to choke the enemy.

  The priests had noticed the commotion and rushed close, but no one dared interfere. The chant of their prayer and the wail of horns intensified, muffling the ragged breath on Shimshons’ lips.

  The serpent’s follower rolled away and rose in a fluid, graceful motion. He was bleeding from a dozen nicks, but he didn’t look any worse for it. Iermiah rushed the man, but the enemy just slapped him away with a quick backhand. The prophet fell hard and did not move.

  That arrogant smirk returned, but there was fear in those eyes.

  Just behind his opponent, he saw the serpent, a black presence, flying toward the city.

  He cannot defeat me, but he can prevent me from fighting his master, Shimshon thought sourly.

  The kohanim formed a hesitant circle around the enemy, trying to help, but they were wary and wouldn’t attack directly. Someone was urgently shouting for troops, trying to make themselves heard above the trumpets and worship. Exhausted, confused warriors from the reserve lines were lumbering uphill, but it would take them forever to reach the top.

  “Step back. You fight with your prayer,” Shimshon rasped, rubbing mud off his forehead. “I will take care of this rat.”

  Dlila was kneeling by Iermiah, gently touching him. His bald head was smeared in red.

  The smiling foe brushed his blood-specked robes. His body went taut. He was ready to pounce again. Shimshon could see the Gomer troops would soon overwhelm the defenders. The priests would have to flee the temple, and then the serpent could finally attack the city.

  The smiling man lurched. His smile vanished.

  Almost too fast to see, Mndnau appeared behind his slumping form, casually holding a blade in his hand. The serpent’s follower staggered once, dropped on his knees, curled forward, and stopped moving.

  “Aluf Nissim has begun a retreat. His flanks are being overrun. Prince Gog is leading the assault himself,” the Cushi said, his breath calm and slow. “I will tell Aluf Hananiel to commit all his troops and try to hold the enemy at bay for as long as necessary.”

  Shimshon picked the rod off the ground, his skin tingling again. “Thank you, my friend.” But the wiry, dark man was gone. Now, I will have my revenge, he thought, and looked up at the growing silhouette of the dragon.

  CHAPTER LAMED-ZAIN

  REVENGE IS MINE

  Iermiah grunted, coming about. He pushed himself up on one elbow. “Shimshon...”

  “Get off the hilltop,” Shimshon warned them. “Everyone! Get away.”

  The chant died. Slowly, reluctantly, the kohanim shuffled their feet, moving toward the city’s walls. They carried the Aron with them, leaving Mishkan Elohim, for perhaps the first time in a thousand years, without protection.

  “Shimshon...” Rami repeated, walking at Dlila’s side, his face awash in blood.

  “You tell my story, Prophet. Promise me that.”

  “I will,” Iermiah whispered.

  Dlila’s eyes shed fresh tears. “I love you, Shimshon,” she mouthed, moving away.

  “I love you,” he said, choking on emotion. His own eyes watered. Blinking tears away, he focused on his vow of revenge. He focused on the monster flying toward him.

  “Tariav!” he shouted. “I will destroy you!”

  The dragon was beating its wings furiously, the seven heads crying in outrage. Shimshon felt connected to the serpent. He understood what it wanted, what it needed. It feared him, it feared the weapon in his hand, but it could not deny itself the need for revenge, no matter what the cost.

  Even if it meant dying.

  Shimshon knew exactly what the beast felt. His own heart beat the same rhythm.

  You have woken from a thousand years of slumber to face the wrong foe, Tariav. You die today.

  Ahead, the situation on the battlefield had turned dire, desperate. There was no more cohesion among Iehuda and Biniamin. They were being overrun from all directions. The cavalry was trying to stall the enemy tide, but it was like throwing sticks into a mud slide. Emboldened, the Plishtim skirmishers were charging, frenzied, their passion to destroy the Israelites almost matching the serpent’s rage.

  The Hittim chariots had reached the rocky slopes and dismounted, moving on foot, spears held high. The fur-clad Tubal and Meshekh warriors were lumbering forward like a pack of hungry wolves, cutting long rents in the defense line. Arrows still rained on the enemy, the best Iehuda fighters were still trying to kill the Magog, but the majestic horsemen and their gray swords could not be stopped now. It was a rout for Israel.

  Prince Gog, I will first slay your master, then I will slay you, Shimshon promised.

  His eyes scanned the myriads. Searching. Searching.

  They found him.

  Prince Gog, astride a dark horse, looking at the sky with a grin on his face. He was wearing no helm and no mask, his golden hair fluttering in the wind. Fearless. Arrogant. Victorious.

  A man so secure in his victory, he cared nothing for the arrows and blood around him.

  You will die.

  The scarlet beast was almost upon Moriah.

  Shimshon stabbed at the sky with Aaron’s Rod and abandoned himself to the power of the Lord.

  His god.

  Blinding light exploded around him, searing his skin, his eyes; and yet, he could still see. He could see the column of lightning strike upwards and bend toward the dragon, smashing into its scarlet hide. Like a sword cutting through straw, the light sliced clean through three of the heads and they fell off like rotten flesh. The arc of light angled and bit into the wings, pruning them off like twigs. The monster wailed and spun, no longer capable of flight.

  It fell into the Gilo stream, splashing boiling brimstone on the Gomer troops, burning their clothes and faces. The whole of the enemy army’s voice rose in o
ne long, unending shriek.

  Shimshon let the rod drop from his fingers. He reached up and gently touched his head. Touched bone. His hair had burned, leaving a red, boiled scalp behind. His skin was melting.

  This would be the end of him. He had no eyes anymore, but God had granted him a few more moments of mercy so he could see the victory to its end.

  He began walking downhill, weak, spent, dying.

  And happy.

  He didn’t know how the gray bronze came to be in his hand, but it was, blood making his grip slippery. He held it as tightly as he could and waded into the enemy ranks once more.

  The Cimmerians were rolling and crawling on the ground like snakes without heads, covered in brimstone, shrieking. They were all blind, like him, faces pocked, hair crisped, bones showing through singed skin and pockmarked flesh. Their armor was smoking from the touch of the blistering yellow and the air was thick with the miasma of foul eggs.

  Shimshon moved on, kicking bodies out of his way, stepping on faces and bellies, moving toward the great body that was Tariav. It was half-submerged in what was left of the Gilo, bleeding its black, oily blood into the bubbling stream. The remaining wings and the tail flapped weakly. One of the heads seemed completely stuck in the mud and the other three were bobbing erratically.

  The beast was blind, too.

  In its fall, Tariav had gouged a great furrow in the ground, leaving behind a smear of broken siege weapons, tents, and mangled flesh—men and horses. It was hard to tell one pulp from another. The acid had splashed far and mutilated the Magog almost to the last man.

  Prince Gog, however, was alive.

  Shimshon found him, kneeling, weeping blood, his beautiful hair matted with dirt. A pale bone jutted from his leg.

  Gog didn’t even notice Shimshon as he stepped up and cut his head off in one swift stroke.

  He tossed Gog’s head into the boiling river.

  The sounds of combat rose up again, a deafening cry from Iehuda and Biniamin. The defenders were slowly rallying, forming up, chasing the disheartened remains of the enemy off the hills, pushing them back toward the valley, toward brimstone and death. Horns blared once more and the City of David burst into gloating and cheering and gratitude to their lord.

  My lord, he thought. My lord.

  With his last wisps of strength, Shimshon tottered to the edge of the Gilo. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the brimstone, ignoring the searing pain. He waded in, coming close to the fallen dragon. Tariav still lived.

  Shimshon buried the blade deep behind one of the heads, cutting again and again. The thunk of gray bronze slicing into that foul flesh filled him with elation. Then, he moved to the second head, the third, the last one. Finally, the dragon was dead.

  Revenge is mine.

  Shimshon waded out and sat on the ground. He could no longer see. He knew the end was near. His last thoughts were of Dlila, and he died with a smile on his cracked lips.

  EPILOGUE

  Iermiah realized he was picking his scabs again and stopped himself. He lowered his hand, ignoring the itch on his head. His injury was healing nicely, but there would be a scar left to remind him of the greatest battle of all time.

  The Lord against the Beast.

  Maybe in a thousand years, the serpent would rise again and another hero would have to fight it, to protect Israel, and to save the world from evil. He didn’t know. His mind was empty of visions. Ever since he’d fallen and opened his temple on the sharp stone, he could no longer hear God’s voice among his thoughts. There was just one last lingering feeling of terror from the night before the battle.

  It could have been a bad dream, but he wasn’t so sure.

  For the past week, the soldiers of Iehuda and the people of the city had been busy clearing the fields, dragging the bodies of their foes into a large pile just north of the Hinom Orchard, where they’d be burned. They searched for friends and family, so they could get a proper burial in the tombs below the old palace. The heroes of the tribe went there. In a similar manner, the warriors of Biniamin were taking their fallen back to their nahala, to make sure the dead were properly honored.

  Rukhama had asked for her son to be buried in the city.

  But Iermiah had arranged for Shimshon and Dlila to be buried under an unnamed olive tree as close to Rabba as possible. The Ammonite may have discovered his true faith just before his death, but he had lived his whole life as a warrior and he deserved to rest among his kin.

  Rami had not expected to feel sadness over the news of Dlila’s death, but it had stirred him. The Plishtit had taken her own life after hearing her beloved had died. She had simply refused to live on without him. It would be a great story of forbidden love, Rami knew, even if the words he scribed were erased or rephrased as generations came and went, as sure as the harvest and the rains. He could only imagine what people would tell one day of Shimshon and Dlila.

  The land was still littered with remnants from the fighting, broken spears and arrows, teeth and hair, torn clothes and pieces of leather, bent swords and pierced plates of armor. The earth had turned dark red, almost black. Crows pecked rotted flesh, screeching in anger when men came too close and they had to scamper away from their feasts. The ground wobbled with their black shapes and they gave no respect to the fallen, whoever they might have been, mighty heroes or lowly servants.

  The huge carcass of the dragon was untouched. No bird came close.

  It was lodged hard in dried soil, caked in a trail of dirt, brimstone and mud. The flesh was drying, Iermiah noticed, and after a while, it would wither to dust and the wind would scatter it far and wide. But for many months, it would be a reminder to the people of the city of the peril and valor they had witnessed.

  Sweaty laborers dragged the bodies of the Magog to the pyre. Asses, ears flattened in dismay at being so close to the stench of death and rot, were pulling small, low wagons overloaded with chunks of severed flesh and mutilated men. The mighty Cimmerians did not look so frightening anymore, stripped of their polished armor and long swords, covered with their own blood, vomit, and puss. The men had boiled and sizzled like crickets in a burning field that day. Iermiah could not forget the screams, the anguish, the atrocity.

  Not far from the severed heads of the dragon, he’d found the decapitated leader of the enemy host, his gold and fur marking him among the hundreds of his chieftains scattered all around him. They had ridden from their far, foreign land to find death in Iehuda. They had incurred the wrath of the Lord in Zion and paid with their miserable lives.

  It was a great reason to celebrate.

  But Iermiah could not join his brothers in their revelry.

  He could not forget the dream.

  He remembered it quite vividly and no amount of wine could help erase it from his memory. He had seen a great host of men arriving at the shores of the Middle Sea, coming from the north and west. Not as fierce as the Magog. Not as many as the Gomer. But disciplined, ruthless, efficient, merciless. They would quickly subdue all opposition in the land and rule with a mighty hand. Iehuda would rise against them and Iehuda would lose.

  The temple on Mount Moriah would be razed.

  We destroyed Tariav, Rami thought sourly. But we will be defeated by men.

  He shook his head. Maybe it was just a dream.

  Turning his back on the vestiges of the great battle, he went into the city to write the story of Shimshon and Dlila.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Igor Ljubuncic is a physicist by vocation, an IT nerd by profession, and a prolific author with fourteen published works since 2011. His current portfolio spans three technical books, seven novels, and four anthologies, including a short story, The Girl with the Flaxen Hair, which was nominated for the 2014 Sidewise Awards for Alternate History.

  Igor runs a popular science and technology blog, www.dedoimedo.com, which has also been nominated and awarded several times over the years. Likewise, Igor’s books have received favorable reviews from Publishers Weekly, Un
derground Book Reviews, Midwest Book Review, SFFWorld, and others.

  You can learn more about Igor’s literary adventures at www.thelostwordsbooks.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Igor Ljubuncic

  What readers have to say...

  Foreword

  I Shall Slay the Dragon!

  Prologue

  Chapter Aleph

  Chapter Bet

  Chapter Gimel

  Chapter Dalet

  Chapter He

  Chapter Vav

  Chapter Zayin

  Chapter Het

  Chapter Tet

  Chapter Yod

  Chapter Yod-Aleph

  Chapter Yod-Bet

  Chapter Yod-Gimel

  Chapter Yod-Dalet

  Chapter Tet-Vav

  Chapter Tet-Zayin

  Chapter Yod-Het

  Chapter Yod-Tet

  Chapter Kaf

  Chapter Kaf-Alef

  Chapter Kaf-Bet

  Chapter Kaf-Gimel

  Chapter Kaf-Dalet

  Chapter Kaf-Hei

  Chapter Kaf-Vav

  Chapter Kaf-Zain

  Chapter Kaf-Het

  Chapter Kaf-Tet

  Chapter Lamed

  Chapter Lamed-Alef

  Chapter Lamed-Bet

  Chapter Lamed-Gimmel

  Chapter Lamed-Dalet

  Chapter Lamed-He

  Chapter Lamed-Vav

  Chapter Lamed-Zain

  Epilogue

  About the Author