Fierce, ruthless and proud, the Choosers of the Slain feasted often, usually on joints of pork shared out at a common table according to strict levels of rank, the champions receiving the best cuts. At those times, Ymir also handed out splendid swords, spears and mailcoats or treasures of gold, silver and rubies. Skalds chanted war poems, of past heroes, of glorious victories and last stands.
The Slayers also took great pains in their religion. Champions prayed to Azel for victory or glorious death in battle, to be able to laugh in the face of defeat (if it should ever occur), to shrug it off as nothing. As the god’s son, Ymir ruled supreme among the Slayers. Indeed, he was the originator of them. Ymir led his battle-slaves in swearing terrible oaths, and after victory, they left heaping piles of booty on holy ground or in sacred groves. Often this loot consisted of enemy armor, swords and spears, broken and twisted or burned over a fire, along with shattered or torn clothes, ornaments, metal vessels and other valuables. No man dared steal such treasures. To even tamper with them, to walk through them, brought a horrible death, the penalty for sacrilege.
After a riverside compound had been defeated, the few survivors sometimes found themselves dragged to sinister groves. There the Slayers bound the defeated and hung them in the ancient trees, dangling men, women, children and animals like so much grotesque fruit. Some died by strangulation, others when spears or arrows pierced their bodies. The battle-dead of the compound, the already slain, Ymir piled onto giant pyres and cremated. The smoke, it was said, wafted their souls to his father Azel and aided the Choosers of the Slain for the next campaign.
Together with the Slayers marched allies: Havilah charioteers such as Kedorlaomer, spearmen of Nod, and one who was unspeakable. So terrible was this one that the king of Nod, a grim and wicked ruler, had ordered him far away, never to return on pain of hideous death.
***
Noah dined the merchants, paid for pitch and several barrels of spices and then began his sermon. They begged off, climbed aboard their wagons and trundled west. After what they had seen, the merchants sought distance between themselves and Ymir with his blood-mad slaves
“You were delivered out of great evil,” Shem told Ham the next day, as they hammered the framework for stalls on the second deck of the Ark.
Ham agreed, and was more determined than ever to free Naamah from her awful fate. The remembrance of her lips burned. Oh, to have her touch his cheek again. To see her smile and to have her peer into his eyes. Thoughts of her left him sleepless and stole his appetite. And it almost caused him to embrace Europa’s sister in evenings of passionate abandon, as a diversion, as a way to cool the fires burning in him—or perhaps to give them scope. But he knew his father’s teaching concerning such activity, and his mother watched him much too closely for that, or sent Rahab to spy on him. He had caught her several times watching him. Each time she had looked away and slunk off as one guilty.
After supper, he often practiced javelin throwing, until he hurled the slender darts unerringly into the center of hay-bale targets propped up against the furthest barn. Torches tied to poles gave him illumination as darkness fell.
He drew another javelin from where several were stabbed into the ground, hefting it, studying the target.
“You couldn’t possibly be thinking of challenging Ymir to a duel, could you?”
Ham turned. He was surprised to see Europa with folded arms. She was alone. Sometimes she could be delightful. Usually she tried to maneuver him into matrimony. Her sisters were uniformly bores. Although they were all quite pretty, they spoke endlessly about driving the villains off their father’s stolen kingdom, how they needed a strong man filled with courage and resolve. Each of them had seemed possessed of the singular ability of counting the heads of cattle, flocks of sheep and bushels per acre turned into shekels to hire sell-swords, men willing to bloody their blades for gold. Years of living under Noah’s preaching had taken the edge of that off Europa. She strove to reunite her kin, a worthier goal than simple slaughter and the regaining of her father’s former parcel of land.
“Where’s your sister?” he asked.
“Mm,” Europa said. “I spoke with Methuselah yesterday.”
“Is that right.”
“Methuselah told me what you forgot to mention to mother.”
“Oh?”
“While Japheth says that at work you’re about as engaged as a sleepwalker. My sister says that whenever she mentions water nymphs you get a dreamy look. It made me wonder what you must be thinking about, what concerns you so.”
Ham blew out his cheeks. Europa was the last person he wanted to talk to about Naamah.
Europa inspected the javelins, and she became thoughtful. “As I said: Methuselah dropped an interesting name yesterday—concerning you.”
“Really?”
“The name was Naamah.”
Ham blushed.
“It seems to me that I’ve heard that name before,” Europa said. “So I asked Japheth. Do you know what he said?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’ve heard the name of Lamech, I suppose?”
“Do you mean my Grandfather Lamech?”
“No. The other one.”
“What other—Oh.”
“Japheth told me that Cain had a son named Enoch and so on down the generations until Lamech was born to Methushael. This Lamech slew his ancestor Cain and became the most dreaded warrior of his time. And we have all learned that it was during this Lamech’s rein in Nod that men began to consort with the bene elohim.”
Ham grew uneasy.
“This Lamech began the ill practice of having more than one wife. His sons became disreputable warriors and led humanity into countless ill pleasures and pastimes. Worse for you, Ham, this Lamech had a son named Tubal-Cain. And this Lamech also had a beautiful daughter, a captivatingly stunning woman by the name of Naamah.”
Ham shrugged. “All right, you know the name of the woman I met. Yes, her name is Naamah, the same as this Lamech’s evil daughter. But do you know something funny? She didn’t drone on endlessly about old feuds and lost kingdoms. So I actually enjoyed our conversation.”
“Is that supposed to be witty?”
He turned away. He shouldn’t have said that. “I’m sorry,” he said. When she didn’t say anything, he turned to find out why.
“Ham,” she said, as if he hadn’t just been a boor. “I’m worried about you. I’m afraid you’re making a terrible mistake. Yes, my sisters and I can talk too much about our father, about our lost kingdom. It must be boring to others.”
“No, no,” he said. “It was a hard loss. Each of you loved your father. I didn’t mean what I just said.”
“I know,” Europa said. “And I think you truly believe that you’re in love with this Naamah. Thus, you might miss what’s right in front of you. But you should consider who this water nymph really is.”
“Who?”
“Ham. There is one with Ymir who was banished from Nod. This one it is said consorts with Azel, the so-called god of the Choosers of the Slain. I wonder, could her name be Naamah, the daughter of ancient, evil Lamech?”
For a wild instant, Ham was terrified Europa might be right. “No. That can’t be,” he said. “The Naamah I saw was young.”
“Did she tell you her age?”
“S-She was too beautiful to be old.”
“Listen to me, Ham. How does Methuselah look? And don’t you think witches who call upon the bene elohim could find spells that help them keep their youthful beauty? I think the awful truth is that your Naamah is evil, utterly so. I think her beauty has bewitched you. I think that’s why you hold to this vain idea of challenging Ymir.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Let Noah deal with Ymir,” Europa said. “For your own sake forget Naamah. Let my sister help you forget. If you really look, Ham, you’ll see that my sister is a beautiful woman. She’d make any man a good wife.”
He stared at her, won
dering if she was right.
“Go,” Europa said, gently taking the javelin out of his hand. “Go and meet my sister by the third barn. I think she’s watching stars, waiting.”
Ham stumbled away, tempted. His Naamah couldn’t be that old witch of legend. It didn’t make sense. Even so, he soon found himself near the third barn.
On the other side waited Europa’s pretty sister. With Ymir was a captive slave named Naamah, a woman he might never see again.
The door to the house opened, and with a lantern small Rahab stepped outside. She whistled, and out of the darkness loped several eager hounds. She set down a bucket of milk, the hounds circling it, lapping.
What would happen to Rahab if Ymir stormed the Keep? Ham smiled wanly. Who would marry her? She didn’t have any sisters like Europa, on the prowl for men to nab. As she petted the nearest hound, Ham wondered what girls like Rahab thought about.
He shrugged, took a step for the other side of the barn, when a watchman on the parapet blew a long, loud note on his horn. The man kept blowing his ram’s horn, at last shouting, “Someone comes!”
13.
A bedraggled, weeping woman by the name of Atalanta sat at Noah’s kitchen table, trembling, hunched over a cup of warmed wine cradled in her shaking fingers. Her dark hair was in disarray, her eyes stark and her clothes torn in places and dirt-smeared. She told a grim tale as candlelight flickered across the table.
She had escaped from the Clan Chemosh Compound, the one where five hundred years earlier Noah had found Gaea. Atalanta was Gaea’s great grandniece, and in her terror had fled here. Not so long ago Noah, in his bid for allies, had spoken with ancient Chemosh. Chemosh like Methuselah had been forced by his children to say no.
With haunted eyes, Atalanta whispered about a terrible catastrophe. It was already past midnight; the family listening intently.
Of course they knew the local geography. Clans in stone-walled compounds dotted the sloping plain between the Northern Mountains and the Southern Sacar River. East through the Forest Road stood the city of Arad, while to the west the plain disappeared into the Mahalalel Marshes. They knew, too, the rumors of Ymir and his attack along river strongholds.
What they didn’t know—but what Atalanta now told—was that the Nephilim had left his barges. In several swift night marches, Ymir had stolen past the southernmost compounds and thrust deeper onto the plain. Then several days ago, he had appeared one dreadful morning before Clan Chemosh Holding. At the crowing of cocks, the folk of Clan Chemosh had awoken to the horror of Ymir and his band camped before the main gate.
The people of Clan Chemosh, as everyone knew, were shrewd farmers and traders, having long ago given up the taxing arts of war. Yet the elders, the oldest sons of Chemosh, had held council and devised a cunning scheme. They had strung long-unused bows and shrugged themselves into dusty armor, and then they lined the stout stone walls in a show of martial array. The gate creaked and out shuffled Patriarch Chemosh, an ancient well over eight hundred years old. The brass gate clanged shut behind him and the bar dropped into place. Alone, carrying a wooden platter in his trembling hands, the robed ancient had approached the giant a furlong off.
Ymir towered over his Slayers. He stood in gleaming links, with a terrible demon mask and an axe in his hands, whose sharpened head could have been a ship’s anchor. As Patriarch Chemosh approached, Ymir stretched out his arm, pointing with his long-handled axe.
A burly Slayer, naked but for a bear cloak and a wolf-skin twisted around his groin, detached from the others and swaggered to intercept the old man. On the warrior’s tattooed chest thumped a silver amulet, stamped in the image of a wicked woman with horns. It was a spirit totem, said to impart courage and contempt of death. The Slayer, the big man, carried a spear, was bearded and had intense eyes.
“Halt, old man,” the Slayer said.
“I bring salt and bread,” old Chemosh said. The stone cup of salt rattled against the shaking platter and the round loaf of bread seemed alive the way it jumped and skittered. “Please, let me approach Ymir and offer them in peace.”
“I am the Spellbinder, he who speaks for Ymir. And Ymir says—” the Slayer touched the platter with his spear-tip, and with a twist knocked it from the old man’s grasp.
“Mercy, great Ymir!” Chemosh cried. The old dotard dropped to his knees, fumbling with the fallen cup of salt, putting it back onto the wooden plate, then letting go of it and stretching out his arms toward Ymir in a silent plea.
The Spellbinder stood above the patriarch, his spear held aloft for a death stroke. Yet the warrior spoke. In a loud voice, he shouted to those watching on the walls. “Come, let us reason together, you and I. You wish for dignity. We obey the will of Ymir. All that is left today is the manner of your death. Ymir urges you to a proud passing, noble and valorous. File out from your stone mound. Draw your swords. Then fight us, men of Chemosh! Prove to us your boldness. Gain renown and Ymir’s respect. Show yourselves warriors and honor us with hard-fought battle. Die bravely so that as heroes you may enter the shadowy halls of Death.”
Fright filled those on the walls. Atalanta, who stood among them, saw the men grow pale and their fingers slacken with terror.
Outside of the wall, ancient Chemosh groaned before the powerful warrior.
“Is there no dignity left in Chemosh?” the Spellbinder asked.
The second-oldest son of Chemosh, the one who had forced his father outside with the salt, handed his bow to his son. The elder had a sly bearing, a crafty smile like a fox. He cupped his slender hands around his mouth and shouted from the parapet. “We’ll fight if we have too. We’ll drive shafts into any that approach too near. Yet that seems foolish. We have silver, gold and precious gems. We would gladly trade these with you if you agreed to sack the compound of Clan Kenaz. They are a vicious people, worthy only of death.”
“You are not to say who is worthy of death! You lack the dignity for such judgments. Do you not understand that only weaklings hide behind walls?” The Spellbinder toed the trembling patriarch. “You sent a dotard as your champion. Your gold therefore already belongs to Ymir.”
“Some of you will die if you attack us,” the foxy-faced elder shouted, his voice growing shrill.
A braying of horns brought a throated roar from the ranks of Slayers round Ymir. Then a long rolling of kettledrums like thunder in the mountains bid the Slayers to chant in a deep and terrible way.
The Spellbinder put his foot on Patriarch Chemosh. “You are beneath contempt!” he roared. “So it will be under the blades of mercenary spearmen you perish and not under the axes of Slayers! Mighty Ymir is ashamed to have donned armor for the likes of you. For such blasphemy, none shall escape your compound alive. This Ymir swears by his father Azel.”
As the drums continued to roll, the men of Chemosh unwound banners and waved them back and forth along the walls. But their motions lacked conviction and many faces had grown wan and bloodless.
“For the third and final time,” the Spellbinder shouted. “Is this your champion: A groveling old man?”
“Mercy,” the patriarch begged.
The Slayer turned to his master.
Ymir handed his huge axe to a warrior, who wrapped it carefully in oiled sealskin. Then the giant took a leather jug from a shaman, a man wearing a vile mask that sprouted deer antlers. Ymir pulled out the jug’s stopper. While he did so, a massive Slayer shrugged off his bear cloak and drew off his silver amulet, handing the items to a second shaman. Then the Slayer knelt before the Nephilim as if in prayer. Ymir touched the Slayer’s shoulder. The Slayer tilted his head and opened his mouth like a baby bird. Ymir poured from the jug. The Slayer gulped, almost gagging because of the volume of sluggish liquid.
Meanwhile, the other Slayers parted ranks. Spearmen of Nod with heavy shields and coats of mail filed to the forefront.
Drums beat and the Ymir-selected Slayer struggled to his feet, helped up by the shamans. The massive man swayed, and he began to shiver an
d shake.
“You have chosen!” the Spellbinder cried. He stabbed ancient Chemosh. Then he withdrew the dripping spear and ran at the walls. “In like manner will you die: groveling and powerless, an object of scorn. Ymir, grant us the victory!” With his shoulders bunching, the Spellbinder heaved the spear as enemy bows snapped at him.
The bloody spear passed over the wall as men of Clan Chemosh ducked on the parapets.
Atalanta moaned in dread. For in that instant a wave of fear—War-Fetters, the Slayers called it—seemed to bind the sons of the dead patriarch.
Even so, some of the men of Chemosh fired arrows at the gloating Spellbinder. Most hissed harmlessly past. One sank into his shoulder, staggering him. He laughed, plucking the arrow from his shoulder, showing it to the men of Chemosh. They gaped stupidly, never having witnessed such a thing. The Spellbinder threw the arrow to the ground. In contempt, he turned his back on them and strode to Ymir.
Those on the walls were too shocked to shoot more arrows.
Meanwhile, archers of Havilah ran toward the wall. In teams of two, they hefted huge, man-sized shields.
The crafty elder of Chemosh shouted to his brothers. They awoke from their daze and notched dusty arrows to their strings. They showered the sons of Kedorlaomer with shafts. The two-man teams thrust their massive shields upright, arrows thudding against them, sticking, quivering. Then, as one man held the shield, the second leaned out to fire arrows at those on the wall.
Atalanta saw that her uncles and great uncles had the advantage of height. The archers of Havilah however, the sons of Kedorlaomer, were expert marksmen. Their bows seemed like living things, their arrows like angry wasps seeking victims.
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