Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  Now the Slayer who was drunk on Ymir’s mead, the one held steady by the two shamans, howled dementedly. Foam flecked his lips and he gnashed his teeth. The shamans pressed a stick dangling with strings of meat into his hands. They whispered to him and his eyes glazed weirdly. Holding the stick, screaming vile oaths and profanities, he began to stalk toward the wall.

  The spearmen of Nod opened ranks. Ugly, huge hyaenodons in leather padding snarled and fixed their beady eyes on the meat stick. They had massive crushing jaws and their hides were spotted like leopards. The doglike creatures were only a little less than five feet at the shoulder and ten feet long. Each had been harnessed to a trace stapled to an uprooted tree trunk. Huge wheels had been bolted onto the hoary trunk. Axes had whittled the shaft-head into a blunt point, into a ram. The wheels groaned as the hyaenodons pulled and their jaws slavered. The naked, mead-drunken Slayer began to run. The hyaenodons ran faster after him. Behind the ram marched spearmen of Nod, clinking in their mailcoats, shields glittering in the morning sunlight.

  “Kill the Slayer!” the elder of Chemosh shouted.

  Chemosh arrows no longer flew at the archers of Havilah, at the great pin-cushioned shields, but at the sprinting Chooser of the Slain. Howling, he raced for the brass gate, his eyes glazed in madness.

  The spearmen also ran and so did the giant doglike creatures. The ram bounced and creaked as it trundled after them. The kettledrums of Ymir pounded. Horns brayed with savagery.

  Then an arrow pierced the berserk Slayer. He ignored the shaft sticking in his chest. A second arrow struck him in the thigh. Then a third and a fourth arrow hit. One caromed off his head. He laughed, staggering, waving his meat stick, almost to the gate.

  “Shoot the hyaenodons!” the elder shouted, the second oldest son of Chemosh.

  It was too late. The Slayer reached the gate and pounded his fists upon it. Men of Chemosh leaned over the stone wall, drilling their shafts directly down at him. The Slayer groaned and slumped to the ground, more than fifteen arrows sticking him. Then the hyaenodons leapt upon the meat stick, greedily devouring strips of meat. A second later the speeding ram burst against the gate, blowing the doors off their hinges.

  Over and past the ram, past the snarling doglike creatures, poured the chanting spearmen of Nod.

  Clan Chemosh died that day.

  14.

  With her tale told, Atalanta drained her wine and sat staring at a dancing flame. Both Noah and Gaea begged her to stay. She could escape this doomed world aboard the Ark and survive in the world to come. Atalanta shook her head. Out of all her clan, only she had broken out. She had narrowly avoided hunting hyaenodons and patrolling charioteers. Her great fleetness of foot, her almost legendary running skills, had saved her and she would continue to run. The curse of Ymir marked her: that none would escape the compound alive. Unless she fled far away, Ymir’s Slayers would capture her and put her to death, hideously.

  Gaea gave her a mule, a package of food and shekels.

  As Atalanta readied her mount outside, Rahab tapped her on the shoulder,

  The woman of Chemosh scowled. She was lithely limbed, a survivor clearly. The way she wore a hooked dagger on her belt made it seem she knew how to use it. Rahab could well imagine Atalanta running long.

  “I can’t take you with me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Rahab shook her head.

  Atalanta’s features softened. “You’re frightened, I can see. Poor, girl, you’ve no idea what’s coming. Do you want my advice? Run! Do whatever you have to, but get away from here. This place is doomed. I know the men here think themselves strong, warriors perhaps, but no one can face Ymir and survive.”

  Rahab dared take one of Atalanta’s hands. She had never been this bold. She pressed the woman’s hand against her chest. Rahab knew what it was like slipping past patrols. Atalanta… she was far older than an eight-year-old girl, but the look in her eyes had been what Rahab surely must have looked like when fleeing her drunken father.

  “You cannot run forever,” Rahab whispered.

  Atalanta snorted. “I have wits, my speed and if needs be my looks. Coins help, but mostly I have the will to survive.”

  “The Earth is doomed.”

  “I’ve heard that one before,” Atalanta said. “I’m still here, and I will be here ten years from now. But no one will be who stays near Ymir. Flee, girl. Don’t wait for these good folk to see the truth.”

  “Jehovah won’t let Ymir destroy Noah.”

  Atalanta laughed, shaking her head, and she urged the mule toward the gate.

  “Good luck,” Rahab shouted. “Jehovah guide you.”

  Atalanta turned and waved.

  Back at the kitchen table, Gaea ruminated on the grim tale, the fact that people these days usually lived like those of Chemosh, for ease and good living. Such folk sought power in ways other than battle. Some sought it through riches, some by training themselves in oratory. Many sought power by conversing with evil spirits, communing with them through vile rituals.

  Many of those had heard the warning of the coming end. Originally, some wondered if Noah might be right. After all, Jehovah was real. They knew that, and for a time they had reformed themselves, drinking less, carousing only on holidays and sacrificing to Jehovah.

  But people laughed at them. Jehovah wouldn’t destroy the world. Things had gone this way year after year and look what had happened—nothing. One by one, the men and women who had heeded Noah realized that his Jehovah was too harsh, too worried about sin and judgment. Jehovah was love. Jehovah would forgive them their few wrongs. Destroy the world? That was foolishness.

  Yes, the world had been made, but not by a singular deity, but by the many gods and goddesses that abounded throughout the universe. They had dreams about these deities or speculated fervently about them until they made idols of gold and silver or wood to represent them. Some of these idols looked like men and women; some had humanoid shapes but bestial heads. Some were beasts, savage and cruel, demanding blood and abasement but giving strength in return—just like Ymir’s god Azel. Some… well, the real power of the world they thought was dark and vicious. The key to attracting those powers was by venal acts or by sacrificing the firstborn child. The people who believed so snarled whenever Noah spoke, often picking up rocks to stone him. Yet… in the end they stomped off, shouting mighty oaths about what they would do if Noah showed his bigoted face around here again.

  Nephilim, however, had never approached the Ark. Nor had bands of armed men thought it worthwhile to bother with a fool. And while many of the bene elohim had sworn to destroy the Ark, none had come within a hundred leagues of it. In fact, radiating out from the Ark in an almost perfect circle was an area just a little less given to the wretched sins of the times than elsewhere.

  Now, however, a giant, a Nephilim, had broken into the area they thought protected.

  Gaea told them not to fear, but by her demeanor, Rahab knew she was worried.

  15.

  Two days later Ham carted boards from the upper deck and down a skeleton of passageways to the second deck where Shem hammered by lantern-light. His longhaired brother was hunched over, tacking a wedge into place. A calfskin thong kept Shem’s hair from his face. He was the shortest of them, had intense eyes and usually kept his opinions to himself.

  “I think I saw him,” Ham said.

  Shem looked up.

  “Ymir.”

  Shem slipped the hammer into his belt-loop, and they hurried up the passageways, climbing onto the skeleton roof. Far to the south rolled the Mounds, hilly terrain surrounded by fields and passed by a merchant road. Beyond the Mounds moved wagons. They cut across prime wheat fields.

  Shem shaded his eyes. “Chariots fan ahead.”

  “That must be Kedorlaomer and his grandsons?”

  “They rode donkeys, if I recall.”

  “A disguise,” Ham said. “So they could scout the Ark for Ymir.”

  Shem scratched his cheek. �
�Perhaps you’re right. They never struck me as traders.” He reached for his ram’s horn.

  16.

  One by one the farmhands slipped away from Noah’s Keep. A few said they had to collect the cattle. Several muttered apologies before slinking off. One shouted that it was time to loot the place.

  Ham hurried into the barn, picking up his javelins. He ran back in time to see his father quietly talking with the would-be looter. Noah had his hand on the man’s shoulder, who bowed his head. Then the man nodded and ran out the gate.

  Noah motioned the family near. “The Keep and all that’s in it is expendable. The Ark however is not. We will live and die with it.”

  “Will Ymir really attack?” Japheth asked, as he held Europa’s hand.

  “If he does, he will perish,” Noah said.

  That surprised Ham. His father wasn’t given to boasting.

  “Jehovah will protect us,” Grandfather Lamech said, who had moved in several days ago. He only had few teeth left and wisps of hair. “But there is still danger. ”

  “Yes,” Gaea said, as she glanced at Ham.

  “Collect extra foodstuffs and the hounds,” Noah said. “Then follow me.”

  17.

  Wagon after wagon creaked into the Mounds. Huge shaggy bosk drew the big wagons, yurts, Ham had heard they were called. Chariots rattled behind, the drivers wearing cloaks and blue turbans. About four furlongs from the Ark, at the nearer edge of the Mounds, the wagons began to turn. One followed the other, until the entire train looped in a circle. People boiled out of the yurts. Some unchained the long-horned bosk. Some pulled bolts of silk from a wagon and set up a huge pavilion in the center of the circle. Then Ymir appeared. Sunlight glinted off his helmet as he studied the Ark.

  Ham’s chest tightened. He watched from high up on the Ark. The giant was bigger than he remembered.

  Ymir turned away and ducked into the pavilion.

  Later, Gaea made her way up beside Ham. He pointed into the enemy camp. Huge poles went up with skull-shaped lanterns on top. “What do you think they’re doing?”

  “Settling down,” Gaea said.

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps it isn’t easy for them to actually enter the compound. Maybe they have to work up their nerve first.”

  “Look how many of them there are. They don’t need nerve.”

  “Why has no Nephilim ever come before?” she asked.

  Ham shrugged.

  “Ymir must sense the presence of Jehovah, and he rightly fears that presence.” Gaea adjusted her shawl. “It surprises me the giant could make it this near. I suspect something drives him.”

  Ham hoped she wouldn’t say ‘Naamah.’

  Soon his mother climbed down, and dusk settled.

  Crazy thoughts came, of sneaking to the enemy camp. He would prowl past wagons until he found Naamah—how exactly he would be able to tell it was her yurt, he hadn’t yet figured out. Slicing the tent leather with a dagger, he would crawl in and shake her awake. She would throw her arms around him, kiss him and plead for him to take her away from Ymir. Hand in hand, they would hurry back here. He would tell his father that Naamah was to be his wife. Only…what about the archers of Havilah and the spearmen of Nod and, worst of all, the Slayers? Ymir would not meekly accept such a theft.

  Ham rubbed his jaw. Maybe Naamah and he would have to run far away from here like Atalanta. Except… what would he do when the flood came?

  The skull lanterns shone in the darkness and a bonfire crackled over there. Shirtless Slayers cavorted around the flames and with eerie chants. The dancing grew wilder, the chants viler. Ham closed his eyes, trying to make out what they said. His eyes flew open. An icy feeling of evil crawled upon him, as if a mighty being swept over the Ark like a vulture. The bonfire roared, flames leaping as if for joy. And then the fire seemed to dampen, as if a veil hid the dancers like gauze.

  Trembling, Ham scrambled down. On shaking legs, he hurried to his parents. They lifted their foreheads from the dirt where they prayed.

  “Th-They practice sorcery,” Ham whispered. “They gather evil spirits.”

  “He that is with us is greater than those that are with them,” Noah said.

  “Pray with us,” Gaea said.

  Ham wanted to fall onto his knees and pray, but he shook his head. “I must get ready.”

  He fled to one of the lumber sheds. In it rested a jerkin of boiled leather studded with bronze knobs, and a leather helmet. Next to it lay a small target shield with a knife-sharp spike in the center. A sheaf of javelins stood in the corner.

  Was he a fool?

  Ham fell to his knees and bowed his head. “Help me, Lord Jehovah. Save me from the butcher’s sword. Please, grant me a wife.”

  Ham trembled, with doubt and fear gnawing his belly. Then came a wonderful thing. The worm that writhed in his gut grew still. He rose and hurried to the south gate, climbing the ladder to the parapet. Europa peered over the palisade’s wooden points.

  “They’ve stopped chanting,” she said.

  Ham waited with her, watching.

  “Look,” Europa said.

  Big men in bear cloaks wearing silver amulets, with flaxen cords tied around their limbs, marched out of the circle of wagons. They bore axes and maces. Behind them trod spearmen of Nod bearing torches. Behind them followed chariots, the horses with plumes of ostrich feathers.

  Ham’s eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of their sockets.

  Ymir came, a towering giant in mail, with a demon mask and a mighty sword at his side. The Nephilim’s shoulders were impossibly wide and an aura of invincible strength exuded from him. His eyes glowed as a wolf’s might at night. Beside the Nephilim strode a cloaked figure, a hood upon its head.

  Ham slid down the ladder, hurrying to the lumber shed.

  18.

  Kedorlaomer pushed on the unlatched gate. It swung open on silent hinges,. The Spellbinder, the herald of Ymir, strode within and Kedorlaomer hurried to catch up. The Slayer dwarfed the small charioteer. Big, bearded, with a bear cloak, a thick golden collar and little else beside his amulet and spear, the Spellbinder had a scarred torso and limbs. His shoulder had stitches from the Chemosh arrow. He had cruel eyes and a savage countenance, like a wolf or sabertooth given human form.

  Beside him, Kedorlaomer with his blue turban and baggy jacket and breeches seemed polished and over-civilized. The archer constantly whispered to the big warrior.

  Beyond the open gate waited grim-eyed Choosers of the Slain, who looked upon the Ark with something akin to fear. The spearmen of Nod stood in silent ranks, while the charioteers of Havilah parked behind them.

  The Spellbinder stopped and ground the butt of his spear. He scanned the empty yard, avoiding looking directly at the Ark. Kedorlaomer waited a bit behind, having fallen silent.

  “I would speak with him called Noah,” the Spellbinder said.

  Japheth walked out of the shadows, a lone hound at his side.

  Kedorlaomer whispered.

  The Spellbinder scowled. “You are not Noah.”

  “I am his eldest son,” Japheth said.

  Kedorlaomer whispered again.

  “The one called Japheth?” the Spellbinder asked.

  “You know me?”

  “Not by your exploits.” The Slayer concentrated his savage features. “Do you speak for Noah?”

  “Not I. I’m curious though why you honor us with your presence.”

  “Indeed, Ymir honors Noah this night.” The massive Slayer nodded at the Ark. “None attempt so… so extreme a deed. There is in the act a negation almost worthy of a Chooser of the Slain.”

  “A negation?” Japheth asked.

  “Some cling to life for what it brings. Not so a Slayer. Valor, outrageous bravery, insane odds, those are the deeds that bring meaning. Yet in grasping such glories, death is often the result. One must therefore embrace death. The Slayer way, the path shown by Ymir is to laugh at death, to mock it as something beneath contempt. We a
ll lose in the end, son of Noah. Only heroic existence allows one to spit at that, as we spit in the face of meaninglessness. Thus Noah’s act, the building of an Ark he will never sail… he approaches the Slayer philosophy in such a deed.”

  Japheth shook his head. “No. The Ark is life, because it is Jehovah’s path from the doom of sin.”

  The Spellbinder gestured away such a notion. “My master knows that Noah’s patron is strong, that Noah himself is unbending, valiant and iron-willed. Thus, there is great honor in defeating such a one. As of course there is honor to be had by Noah if he can defeat my master.”

  “There will be no fight,” Japheth said.

  “I assure you that Ymir is mighty, worthy to be faced. It will not sully your weapons to dip them in his blood.”

  “I believe you,” Japheth said.

  “Legions have fallen to Ymir’s sword. The giants Cronus, Moloch and Jotnar have all tasted death at the blow of his axe. Cities lie in ashes because of him. And the king of Nod marshaled his hosts to turn away my master, in the end giving as tribute a company of his spearmen. Can Noah boast such a record?”

  “More than that,” Japheth said. “Noah is obedient to Jehovah. On that he stands.”

  Kedorlaomer whispered.

  The Spellbinder lifted his hand for silence. “Can it be that Noah refuses to fight?”

  Before Japheth could answer, a jangle of heavy armor told of Ymir’s approach.

  “Behold!” the Spellbinder said, “my master, the Lord of Battles.”

  Ymir wore a silver demon mask with horns. He towered twice Japheth’s height and had mammoth-wide shoulders. Grim nobility filled him, warrior majesty. He wore iron links and a huge sword hung at his side. Beside him walked a cloaked person, who seemed like a child compared to Ymir.

  Kedorlaomer abased himself.

  The Spellbinder bowed. “Great One, this son of Noah implies that his father refuses to fight.”