Day of War (27 page)

Remember the covering.

The black war club glinted in his hands.

Karak eased himself slightly over the top of the pile of bodies still warm from life and now lying in a heap. All of his men were dead or dying, or soon would be. All of them. An entire army gone because of his foolishness.

The wine still made his mind murky, but the cold air helped him regain his alertness. He would never be able to return to his own lands. He would be the brunt of laughter, called a woman, and forced to haul water from the village well.
That would never happen.
Whatever honor he had left, he needed to preserve for the next life.

Karak had watched the battle from under the pile for an hour. He’d seen the Hebrew general forming a perimeter of men around
the ruins of Karak’s command tent, moving in perfect discipline and easily slaying Amalek’s drunken warriors. He watched as his women captives were lost, along with all of his war prizes and wine — so hard-won but gone forever now. Karak had no men to take them back with.

Lying hidden in the pile of bodies, Karak had caressed the hilt of his dagger, feeling its gentle weight, and felt a hot desire to bury it in the neck of the Hebrew war chief. He waited while the pile of bodies grew around him — all of them his men, men he had failed just as they had failed him. He saw two of the Hebrew commanders fight one another, only to be separated by their leader. It was unlike men of such discipline to do that.

He kept his face low and still as the two generals stood next to him and discussed the escape of the Egyptian. Karak’s anger rose as he listened.

The two men stopped talking. One of them walked away. The other stood silently for a moment. Karak could hear his breathing and was able to watch from the edge of his vision as the tall warrior waited in the smoke and gloom. Then he heard him bound away in a steady stride. Karak was alone again.

He raised his head slightly until he could see the huddle of women and children, some of them still frightened and weeping, others greeting their men with joy. Behind him, other Hebrew warriors were holding their positions in the perimeter to keep security, showing remarkable discipline for not charging into the group of captives. He thought again that they were hard men, good fighters, a worthy enemy to lose to. He should have been prepared.

And then something odd happened. For the first time, Karak felt unsure of himself. He feared that he would probably die this night.

He shook his head violently, blamed the wine for these mad thoughts. Why should he fear death? His people believed that there was an eternal war. All men went there—or at least all brave men
who had captured plunder and killed their enemies. Some would rule with the gods, and war would rule them all. And now he saw how to prepare himself for a place of honor in that eternal war. He would prove he was not inept. He would kill the Egyptian and the Hebrew commander.

Karak saw the Hebrew commanders kneeling and talking.

One of the men ran off, leaving the other alone, who then rose up and turned in his direction, the sword on his back highlighted against the flames. It was far too large a weapon for a man that size to carry. The Egyptian might have wielded it, but not a man of normal size like this Hebrew.

This was the Hebrew commander. Karak could sense it as one could sense all men of authority when they came near.

The Hebrew general studied the darkness. Karak waited. The man eventually turned his back to Karak, watching a company of his men resuming the pursuit of the remnants of Karak’s army. It was now or not at all.

Karak prayed to his gods, begging them for entrance into the eternal war if he killed the Hebrew, hoping it would be enough, in their judgment. If he could just make the eternal war, he would prove himself. If he could just make the eternal war …

He sprang to his feet, shoving off the bodies that had covered him, and stumbled down the pile toward the Hebrew. Karak funneled his anger into speed, driving his sloppy legs as hard as he could and forcing blood into his veins. The Hebrew would hear him at any moment. He needed to close the distance quickly.

Karak pulled the war axe from his back and held his dagger low in his other hand. A few more paces. He raised the axe and swung, but as he did he grunted. The Hebrew must have heard him, for he collapsed out of the way as the blade sliced across the air next to his head.

Karak could not slow his momentum. His hands vibrated as the
axe struck not the Hebrew warlord’s head but rocky ground. He thudded against a surprised woman who had been sitting next to the Hebrew, and they crashed to the earth together. He felt her body take the force of his impact hard.

Soft flesh pressed against him as they rolled together. But the Hebrew warlord would be regaining his balance and drawing the enormous blade from his back. Karak pushed the screaming woman away and rolled.

To the left!

The Hebrew’s sword nicked his thigh. He snatched a handful of burning embers from the nearby fire and threw them, feeling the sizzle of charring flesh in his palm. It worked: the Hebrew had to raise his arm in defense, and Karak lashed out with his axe in a low swipe. It caught the leather straps of the man’s sandals but did not hit flesh.

But the Hebrew was fast! Before Karak could regain balance to swing again, the man darted to his left and brought the sword down hard onto Karak’s shoulder. Karak lurched. Blood splattered his face. The cut was deep, nearly severing his left arm, and now it hung useless.

Karak shouted curses, calling on his gods through the pain, his eyes suddenly stung by thick smoke, and he had to move again quickly because the man was charging too fast. He brought the axe up with his good arm and blocked the next blow. But he could not stop the next and felt hot iron slide into his belly under his raised war axe.

He looked down at the sword in his gut. It was a remarkable blade, a huge weapon. No man should have been able to wield it with such speed; it was simply too large. Karak was angry. He could feel blood burbling into his throat and his ears ringing. He gagged, spat it out, watched it drip down the sword. The Hebrew general was looking into his eyes.

Karak smiled at him. He was grateful for that. They would be fighting in the afterlife in the eternal war. There would be no end of their battle, and Karak would be waiting for him. The man who’d killed him had auburn hair. His features were harsh and rugged, his beard cut short, and he had the amber-colored eyes of a lion. There was no mercy in them.

Karak gurgled again, the ringing growing louder, his head beginning to swim. He felt the cold of death begin to take over. The war would be good on the other side. The war is there, and I will wait for him, he thought. Pain ebbed, but then as his vision slipped away into blackness, the eyes of a lion bore into him.

He gasped again, terrified.

David watched the tattooed warrior drift away. When he was dead, David pulled the blade out and knelt on one knee, suddenly overcome with weariness. It would pass. It always passed.

It was late. More time had passed since the initial attack than he’d realized. Dogs were coming out of nowhere to ravage corpses. He said something aloud. An order. But what? What had he just said? He shook his head.

Goliath’s blade was warm.

Still so much smoke. The wives are safe now. Finish it and we’ll all go home.

He wiped his brow with his dirty, matted tunic.

Find the men.

David stood back up. The weariness was gone now, and he gave thanks aloud. “Thank you, Yahweh. You train my arms for war. Forgive the sins of my men and give them power where they fight, this moment, this hour. Do not forget us, do not forget your promise.”

He needed to find his men. He blinked and focused. Joab was rushing his troops forward to cover the flank of the Amalekites’ retreat to make sure no man escaped. It awoke him from dreaming. Energy surged back into him. He gave thanks again. The day was not over yet. Benaiah would be near the Three now.

Yahweh, cover them.

An arrow swished past Josheb’s head just as he tripped the next soldier coming at him. He had settled into a rhythm of lunging forward, and if the enemy was off balance he would press it—if not, he would retreat three steps in order to draw the enemy soldier in. In the darkness, he could barely make out Eleazar and Shammah doing the same.

They kept together without fail. The tide of Amalekites pushed them back through sheer numbers, but the Three were able to hold them. Cowards kept to the edges of the canyon, trying to run past them, but others hungry for glory in the afterlife attacked them in desperation.

Eleazar shouted something over the clashing, but Josheb missed it. He waited for Shammah to repeat it but heard nothing else.

Three Amalekites appeared out of the night in front of him. He caught the first strike, a spear, and tore it out of the soldier’s hand. As the man fell forward Josheb leaped onto his back, swung the stolen spear, and crushed the neck of the next man. The falling soldier whose back he rode landed and skidded on the gravel. Josheb stomped his head with his foot.

One more coming, others behind him.

Josheb threw the spear into the man and let him fall against him, using his body as a shield against the arrow that flew out of the darkness from an unseen archer and thudded into the soldier’s
back. He shouted, threw the man down, and swung the pike in his left hand until it connected with another soldier.

He did not know how many he had killed, but the Amalekites were still coming, and somehow he had strength to keep his blades moving. The ground was slick with the bowels of dead men, and he slipped in the grime. A soldier was screaming in agony on the ground nearby, a wide gash in his belly. Josheb stabbed him in the neck—a mercy.

He shook his head to clear the sweat and to focus, and another group of three emerged. Where was Eleazar? There, with two men on either side of him.

Shammah was there too; he caught the strike of one of them and clubbed him with an axe. An axe? Where did he get the axe? He must have taken it from an Amalekite.

Josheb ducked another attack just in time and thrust his elbow into the soldier’s torso, but he was wearing armor, and Josheb’s arm burst with pain. His fingers twitched; he felt as if he had just shattered his entire arm, but there was no time to examine it; he had to dodge another blow. A fast jab with the pike into the man’s mouth broke his jaw, then Josheb impaled him in the torso to finish it.

Shammah was their rear guard in larger battles, when swarms of men surrounded them and the other two were piercing the ranks, unable to see behind themselves. He proved himself once more, striking down a soldier Josheb hadn’t seen until it would have been too late. Josheb was grateful. Then he heard the warrior actually singing, impossibly calm in the midst of the battle, singing as he struck down enemies and protected his brothers.

Each man fought within the carefully chosen movements of the
abir,
controlling his efforts precisely, feeling Yahweh’s voice in the chaos, following his lead, feeling the power of the covering.

Some soldiers streamed past them in panic-stricken flight; they could not reach them all—the canyon was a bit too wide for that.
The rest of David’s army would hunt them down once the families were safe.

Josheb kept spinning and waiting for another charge, his arm still throbbing from striking the dead soldier’s armor. But for the moment, he was alone, and Shammah and Eleazar were finishing off their opponents.

Josheb felt a muscle twitch in his leg. He seized the moment to grope for his small water pouch and drink. The black night was suddenly cold. Or had it been cold, and his nerves and the battle prevented him from realizing it?

His tunic, slick with sweat, stuck to his back, slapping him with a freezing wet feeling each time he moved. The other two came to stand near him momentarily, eyeing the night around them while sipping quickly from their pouches, then retying the top and dropping them back beside their waists.

“How many more of them can there be?” Eleazar panted.

“Can’t be more than a few hundred,” replied Josheb.

“They’re here again,” said Shammah, nodding toward the camp. More backlit figures ran toward them.

Josheb saw the form of a man larger than the rest running near the rear of their ranks, and the three of them watched in surprise as he began to drop fleeing soldiers from behind. His weapon rose and fell, smashing against the heads and backs of the Amalekites. They only ran harder, frightened, almost corralling like sheep toward where the Three were waiting for them.

Josheb darted back to the front of the group and raised his pike. The first man he let go past for Eleazar, the next went to Shammah, then he stuck out his leg and tripped the third. The man didn’t even resist when Josheb plunged the tip of the weapon into his back. He pulled it free and struck the next one quickly. The three of them drew tightly together now and fought only forward, since they were now unable to swing and spin without hitting each other.

The large figure who had been killing Amalekites from behind reached them, clubbed a soldier to the ground, and Josheb recognized Benaiah, his face twisted in fury.

“Josheb, Eleazar, they have our women.”

Eleazar looked as stricken as though an enemy blade had slid past his guard and buried itself in his neck. Josheb’s own throat went dry. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Could they have come this way?”

Josheb felt sick, remembering. “I saw a small group go into a side canyon, early in the fight.” He gestured toward the gap in the distance. “It may have been them. I will go with you. Shammah, stay here and hold them. Can you do it alone?”

“I will not be alone,” he said, smiling. “Go get them.”

“How many of our men are down, Benaiah?”

“None that I know of. Neither Joab nor Abishai have lost anyone. And you three are here.”

“Praise to our God and arrows to our enemies, brothers,” said Shammah solemnly. They nodded, and everyone but Benaiah repeated it. Josheb could not help but smile. Shammah always reminded them of their priorities.