Prize of War

by Carole Towriss

  “Your only goal is to make sure no one reaches that water. Some of you slog through the spring and get to the bottom of the tunnel, the rest stay on this side. We want to force them out of the city.”

  Othni lay by the fire, careful to avoid his linen-wrapped but still aching arm. As exhausted as he was, the pain in his arm made it difficult to sleep now. Jumbled thoughts bounced about in his head. He’d wanted the command, yearned for it, but now it weighed heavily on him.

  The men who had already died had barely been buried. How many would die today, under his command? Due to a decision he made? A mistake? Yahweh, You sent us here, I ask You now for Your protection and for victory. Guide my thoughts and my actions.

  Next to him, Caleb stirred, wincing as his hip bore weight for a moment—a visible reminder of Othni’s biggest mistake. A moment’s hesitation on his part led to a lifetime of pain for someone else. Othni’s error was the cause of Caleb’s limp, the reason he no longer fought with the same tenacity and drive that had earned him his reputation. It was the reason Othni hadn’t asked for Acsah before now.

  And the reason Caleb chose Enosh.

  “Are you ready for today, nephew?”

  “I’ve done all I can do. And I’ve asked Yahweh for His help. I don’t know what more there is to be done.”

  Caleb grinned as he sat up. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He poked a stick in the fire. “Do you know why I didn’t choose you?”

  Othni’s stomach tightened painfully. “Because of Gibeon?”

  “No. First, I truly hoped a siege would work. I wanted to lose as few men as possible.” He frowned. “Enosh disappointed me tremendously.”

  “And second?”

  “You lacked confidence.” Caleb’s gaze searched Othni’s face. “You should know, I did speak to your commanders.”

  Othni stilled. “You did?”

  “Yes. Every one of them said you performed admirably, beyond their expectations.”

  “And yet you chose Enosh.”

  “You don’t know you are an excellent soldier. Gibeon haunts you, not me.”

  He sat up. “But the damage…”

  “Nephew, you were no older than Malachi is.” His face contorted in pain as he tossed the stick into the fire. “I was hoping this mission would give you the confidence you need to succeed for the rest of your life.” Caleb paused. “It is not the mistakes we make in life that define us. It is how we react to them. And you ran.”

  Caleb was right. He’d run. And kept running. For years. Had he learned his lesson?

  “You realize, if we take Kiriath-Sepher today, you also win Acsah.”

  His breath caught. Acsah could be his? “I do?”

  “It won’t be Enosh's victory. I don’t like the way he handled this. It was not what I expected from him at all.” He stared into the fire. “Makes me wonder how he would handle a wife. Acsah never would have survived him.”

  Survived him? “Then I ask again, why did you choose him?”

  “Yahweh told me to. I trusted Him to work it out. This is not what I expected but …” He turned his intense gaze on Othni. “Let me ask you. Would you have trusted yourself to make the decisions needed to take their city if I had chosen you from the start? Or did you need Enosh as a catalyst? To prove yourself?”

  Good question. One Othni was not sure he could answer.

  In the deepest part of the night, Acsah sat up on her mat, chest heaving, sweat dripping from her face.

  It had been a long time since she dreamed of that day east of the river, the day everything changed.

  She could remember every detail with startling clarity even though it had only been her tenth summer. Israel’s forty years in the wilderness was complete, and of those who had made the long and torturous journey from Egypt, only Moses, Joshua, and Abba remained. After marching the long way around Edom and through Moab, Israel achieved a great victory over King Sihon of Heshbon. The plan was to then march north to defeat King Og of Bashan.

  Acsah had begged Abba not to leave, but he’d said he wouldn’t be gone long. She shivered, the pain fresh even now, remembering the morning he strapped on his leather chest armor, laced up his sandals, and slipped his sword into its sheath at his hip. She’d clung to the tent pole as he strode away, hundreds and hundreds of young men marching after him, leaving her behind.

  That was the last time he saw his wife.

  Swiping the blanket over her face, Acsah tried to slow her breathing, but the images of Imma lying on her sleeping mat, fighting for every breath, would not go away. She shook her head as if to dislodge them, but they persisted.

  The weather had been glorious. A bright, clear summer day with high, fluffy white clouds in a sky as blue as she had ever seen. Acsah and Othni laughed as they chased one another through the lush grasses of the Jordan Valley, gathering bouquets created from the multitude of flowers gracing the hillsides. When the sun touched the tips of the mountains in the west, they dragged their exhausted bodies to their tents and plopped in front of the fire to munch manna cakes.

  Imma was weaving date palm fronds into a lovely basket of various greens. She reached for her knife to cut off a stray leaf. The blade slipped and sliced deep into her finger. Blood dripped onto her beautiful creation. Othni grabbed a cloth to bind up her hand while Acsah poured water on the basket to wash off the blood. Imma’s hand was bandaged, the evening meal of manna was cooked and eaten, and the incident was forgotten.

  Two days later, Imma’s cheeks pinked. Acsah cupped her face; she felt a tiny bit warm, but Imma dismissed it.

  The next day, Imma was so dizzy she could not stand. She seemed confused and kept asking where Abba was. Aunt Leah poured honey on the wound, which glowed red around the edges. Crimson streaks shot out from the cut.

  Acsah gave her willow bark, myrtle, chamomile. She placed cool cloths on her forehead. No matter what she did, Imma’s body would not be cooled.

  Acsah made mint tea. As Imma sipped the tea, she cupped Acsah’s cheek. “Such a good girl. Taking care of me. You always take care of everyone.”

  Imma drifted in and out of sleep. After a restless night, she awoke with a burning fever. For the next two days the fever burned hotter, the wound colored more red. It began to ooze and swell. Acsah sat beside Imma, her own heart racing, anguish gripping her chest like a fist, unable to move. She held Imma as she alternately shivered and burned, prayed for Yahweh to heal her. Prayed for Abba to return.

  Neither happened.

  The last thing Imma said was, “Promise you’ll take care of your abba for me.” She stopped shivering. Stopped moaning. No longer responded in any way.

  Then she drifted away altogether.

  The searing pain in Acsah’s heart still burned as brightly as it had then. Abba didn’t come home for another three weeks after that. He couldn’t help her, couldn’t comfort her.

  Only Othni did. He’d found her after she burst from the tent sobbing, blind with grief, running until she collapsed. He held her until she calmed, never telling her to stop crying, never telling her it would be all right, because it never would.

  Abba wasn’t there because he was a warrior. And warriors are never there when you need them.

  Noise unlike any Othni had ever heard jarred him awake. Shouts, screams, and the banging of metal and wood. How long had he slept? The sky was a clear, cloudless, blue; the air hot and dry. The sun hovered above the eastern horizon. Obviously the giants had awakened, begun their morning food preparations, and found their secret pathway to the spring had not only been discovered but was filled with bowmen.

  The blaring of the ram’s horn called Judah to battle. Othni leaped to his feet, grabbed his bow and quiver, and sprinted toward the chaos. The gates of Kiriath-Sepher burst open, and Anakim poured onto the sandy fields like wine from a ruptured skin. Armed Israelites raced toward the bulwarks while the archers took the relatively high ground of the low hills.

  Othni took aim and let his arrows fly into the madness. Every
missile found its mark. Arrows that barely wounded the other day this time felled giants. The daggers and swords of other Israelites did the same.

  The Anakim were losing men faster than they could rearm and redeploy. Soon, bodies littered the loamy sand around the stronghold, blood coloring the soft brown a deep scarlet. Yahweh’s dominance was everywhere evident.

  Israel’s bowmen took to the vacated walls. Arrows soared and giants fell.

  As the number of survivors dwindled, some of the younger, smaller Anakim—if you could call them smaller—fled south into the desert.

  “Archers! Follow the runners!” Othni ordered. The last time they escaped, they just showed up elsewhere. He didn’t want that happening this time. His men bolted after the hulking warriors.

  Now outnumbering the giants, the Israelites easily gained the upper hand, since the inhabitants could no longer hide in their stone fortress. The clanging of metal against metal, the howling of widows, and the screams of the wounded melded together into one unnatural sound.

  Othni scanned the battlefield. His men had things well under control. Perhaps he could check out the city, see what had been left behind. Had they abandoned weapons, food, other supplies? He stepped through the massive gates. A road ringed the town, the largest houses backing against the fortification. He jogged toward the city’s center, a huge central building. Maybe a temple of some kind? He reached for the door.

  An enormous arm snared his neck. Searing pain jabbed as an Anak blade sliced his side. He jerked his head down hard and twisted, backed away. The good thing—probably the only good thing—about the giants’ height was it made it difficult to grab a normal-sized man around the throat and hold on. Othni dropped his bow and unsheathed his sword as he spun, slicing it across the torso of the Anak before him. How long could Othni hold him off? He backed off farther.

  The giant brandished his blade. Othni stayed barely out of reach. Blood thundered in his ears. His vision narrowed to only the goliath before him, the razor’s edge in his enormous hand. With the giant’s long legs, Othni could play keep-away for only so long. The giant swung one way, held the blade over his shoulder, ready to swing back the other way. Before he could bring the sword down, a pair of arrows flew over Othni’s shoulder, striking the Anak in the neck and chest. He bobbled on his feet, then fell toward Othni, who jumped sideways before the giant landed on him.

  Othni fought waves of vertigo. His side throbbed, and blood oozed from the wound. He turned so the slice in his clothing and skin was hidden from the men. Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled.

  Two of his archers stood, bows out, elbows back. Behind them, more of his men entered, Siah in the lead. “We caught up with some of them, but a number escaped into the hills.”

  Othni jerked his head toward his attacker. “I don’t want any more surprises.” He needed to be sure the city was thoroughly empty. “Spread out. Check every building. Meet back here.”

  Othni nodded to Siah. “Go in here. I’ll be right behind you.” He jerked his thumb at the temple behind him.

  Siah yanked open the door and ducked inside.

  Othni dropped next to the felled Anak and ripped a length of fabric off the giant’s tunic. He pulled his own blood-stained tunic over his head and tossed it aside, then wrapped the fresh cloth around his torso several times and knotted it. Blood almost immediately seeped through, but it would have to suffice.

  Siah exited the building as the others returned. His eyes fixed on Othni’s wounds, but he said nothing. “All clear.”

  The others returned with similar reports.

  Othni glanced around. He was taking no chances. Spotting a cauldron of gruel boiled almost dry, he pulled out several flaming logs from the fire beneath and passed them around.

  “Burn it,” he said. “Burn everything.”

  Enosh stood at the crest of the hill from which he’d once commanded the attack on Kiriath-Sepher. This time he watched the flames leap above the walls.

  Flames started by someone else.

  And as the fire grew hotter, so did his rage.

  He sucked in a slow, hot breath. The muscles in his shoulders stiffened, and his jaw tightened.

  Enosh turned and stalked to the bottom of the rise, then far away from the others. He paced, kicking at the scrub plants underneath his feet. Repeatedly pulling his dagger from its sheath and slamming it back in, he took pleasure in the hollow sound.

  The battle was over, and he had lost everything.

  The city.

  His command.

  Acsah.

  Not that he’d ever loved her, but she was the most beautiful girl in Hebron, perhaps in all of Judah, and he deserved her.

  More than that child-warrior. Othniel had no idea what he was doing. He was lucky, not proficient.

  Enosh growled. He should have known eventually blood would win out over skill, and Caleb would give the command to his nephew. Caleb hadn’t even let Enosh fully execute his plan, stopped him in the middle because a few people got hurt.

  Maybe more than a few, if he were honest. And maybe more than hurt.

  Enosh had tried to explain himself to Caleb on several occasions, but the old man wouldn’t listen. One tiny error, one slight miscalculation, and Caleb took everything away from him. Now, if Enosh didn’t come up with a new strategy soon, he would never regain control.

  If it wasn’t too late already. Was there any way to salvage this? Some of the giants had managed to flee. Could he possibly turn that to his advantage somehow? Point it out, blame it on Othniel’s youth and inexperience?

  Or would he just sound bitter?

  Because, of course, he was.

  And what gave Othniel the right to attack him because his—what was it, his cousin—died? This was war. People died in a war. Did he really not understand that? That foolish boy refused to follow instructions. If he’d let them put honey on his back, he might be alive right now.

  Enosh should have insisted Othniel be punished, at least reprimanded, for assaulting him. But Caleb would never do that to his own blood.

  Enosh had fought for Caleb for seven years. Seven years. One of his best captains. He’d earned Caleb’s trust. Carried out innumerable missions. Won countless cities for him. Brought him limitless glory. Which Caleb, of course, was quick to claim for himself. And now, when it came time for Enosh to claim his own reward, it went to someone else, someone who didn’t deserve it.

  Enosh grasped his dagger and let it fly at the acacia tree near the dry river bed. The knife struck the trunk, vibrating as it waited for Enosh to retrieve it.

  Where had Othniel been for the last four years? One misstep and the boy had run, straight to the heights of Benjamin. If he’d been a man, and not a boy, a true warrior, he would have stayed and faced what he’d done, learned from his mistake instead of escaping. He said he was fighting elsewhere, but who could know that for sure? Had Caleb bothered to check or simply taken him at his word? He could have been hiding in a cave for all they knew, then happened to show up at just the right time to claim the prize.

  Enosh's prize.

  It wasn’t right.

  Othni hobbled out of the gates as his archers set the abandoned city ablaze, dragging the giant’s mammoth tunic behind him. Crackling flames sounded behind him, and heat pricked his bare back. The battle was over, and Kiriath-Sepher belonged to Yahweh.

  But at what cost? Had it been worth it?

  He limped toward camp with the rest of the soldiers. Wounded still lay scattered in various stages of recovery. When he reached the water, he threw down his bow and quiver, and collapsed on the ground. Twisting to examine the gash the giant had given him, he noticed the cloth around his middle was already soaked again. He beckoned to one of the camp boys. “Can you bring me some honey?”

  After the young man scampered off, Othni loosed the fabric and tossed it aside. Ripping more strips from the Anak’s clothing stressed his injury further. He dipped one of the cloth ribbons in the water and rinsed the blood f
rom his side, wincing as he did.

  The warm earth actually felt good when he finally lay back, holding a dry cloth in place. He draped his other arm over his eyes. The raging sun exacerbated his exhaustion.

  Had he accomplished what Caleb sent him to do? He hadn’t fought under his uncle since Gibeon… Would Caleb be pleased with his work this time? Would he be proud to call him his commander?

  His son-in-law?

  When Othni awoke, a small fire burned nearby. He tried to sit up, but his side throbbed. Groaning, he put his hand to his injury, now rewrapped. Honey oozed from the edges. When did that happen? How long had he slept?

  “We applied honey to your wound and redressed it.”

  Othni squinted to make out Caleb sitting cross-legged by the fire, watching over him, short sword still strapped to his hip. Siah slept on the other side, his bow and quiver at hand.

  “We don’t want your wound to become inflamed as well.”

  No need to state who else they were thinking of.

  “Go back to sleep. Now that I know you are all right, I shall sleep also.” His uncle lay on his side, his head on his arms, and closed his eyes.

  Othni twisted his head to glance back at Kiriath-Sepher, now calm. No flames could be seen through the open gates. Nothing else could be seen under the new moon. Camp fires dotted the area around him, each with at least one person still awake, guarding against any Anakim who should decide to come back and reclaim their city.

  He stuck out a hand and felt the ground. His weapons lay next to him, along with a full waterskin. His brother, or Caleb, or both, had taken good care of him as he’d slept. So soundly, apparently, they’d been able to wrap a bandage around his torso without waking him. He’d lost more blood than he’d thought.

  He lifted his head and took a long drink of water before he closed his eyes again. A list of tasks began to form in his mind, tasks that now must be completed before they could return to Hebron.

  Bury the dead. Treat the injured. Repair the gates.

  Clear the tunnel. Inspect the wells. Build silos for grain. Build a house.