“Tell him we’ll fight!” Assur said, leaping to his feet.
“Is that wise?” asked his brother, Arphaxad.
“I wonder that too,” Elam said, another brother. “According to his herald, Nimrod only wants to help us build cities. And is there not strength in unity?”
“What are you saying?” cried Assur. “Nimrod doesn’t worship Jehovah, but Bel and other demons. If we follow him, he’ll lead us into idolatry.”
“Maybe those claims are exaggerated,” Elam said.
“I assure you they’re not,” Ham said.
“But that makes no sense,” said Elam. “I’ve visited Babel. It was magnificent, and the Tower they constructed awes the imagination. If Nimrod led them in demon worship, I don’t believe Jehovah would reward such treachery. Surely, plague, and death by beasts, would have winnowed them to a frightened mass. Instead, confidence and plenty and healthy sons and daughters are their lot. We must consider this offer carefully.”
“Who here dares to bind me?” asked Beor.
“No one,” Assur said. “We will fight.”
“And start a war?” asked Elam.
“They’re the one invading us,” Assur said.
“That isn’t what Gilgamesh says.”
“Nimrod is full of smooth words,” Ham said. “Never doubt that those who come from Babel march as conquerors.”
“What do you think, Father?” asked Elam.
Shem regarded his sons and he glanced at Gilgamesh. “We must fight.”
“Yes,” Assur said, sounding relieved. “Tell Nimrod he will face our full might.”
Gilgamesh stood and bowed. “Is that what I should say?”
“Do not seek our disunity,” Shem said. “Otherwise, you might lose the rank of herald and be called a spy.”
“May I ask a question?” Gilgamesh asked.
Shem made a smooth gesture.
“What does Noah say to all this?”
No one answered.
“May I speak with Noah?” Gilgamesh asked.
“Not today,” Ham said.
“May I ask why not?” Gilgamesh said. Above all else, Nimrod wanted to discern if Noah helped them.
“No, you may not ask Noah why,” said Ham. “He doesn’t feel like speaking today. What you may do is return to Nimrod and give him our decision.”
Gilgamesh pinned on his ermine cape and marched from the tent with his helmet in the crock of his arm. He marched into the drizzle, knowing now that war could no longer be averted.
18.
Pine trees whispered in the night. A sly foot missed a step and cracked a pinecone.
Odin peeked from behind a mossy rock, spying a silhouette. “Hilda? Is that you?”
A soft sigh told him yes.
He slipped from hiding, embracing her and kissing her sweet lips.
“My father suspects us.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Odin asked.
“What makes you think he isn’t?”
Odin let go, glancing everywhere but seeing nothing in the darkness.
“Oh, my brave darling,” Hilda said. “Do you think so poorly of my father that you believe he’ll club you from behind?”
“Your father hates me.”
“No, my darling,” Hilda said, while stroking his cheek. “He can’t stand the thought of losing me. I’m all he has.”
“What about his hatred for Nimrod? Isn’t that his true possession?”
“I’m the counterweight to it. It’s the reason I can’t marry you.”
Odin clutched her fingers, holding them against his chest. “Listen to me, Hilda. The Shemites can’t stand against Nimrod. You know that, I suspect so does your father.”
“What if my father kills Nimrod?”
Odin smiled sickly. “That’s not so easy, my love. He’s the Mighty Hunter for a reason.”
“He’s still human, still killable.”
“Yes, but—”
She freed her fingers, holding his face and kissing him. “Poor Odin,” she murmured. “Life is unfair and cruel. I want to marry you. I want to do as you ask.”
“Hilda!” he said, crushing her to him. “Run away with me.”
“Flee from Nimrod?”
“Yes! Let us run far and fast, to the Far North where no one will ever find us.”
“What would we do there?”
“Build a tribe as Adam and Eve once did. Train our children in the way they should go.”
“It has never worked before. Why would it for us?”
“If we stay,” Odin said, “Nimrod will slay me and rape you, keeping you as his whore. You can’t want that.”
“He’ll find that he’s taken a viper to his bosom.”
“Bold boasts, my love. Perhaps he’ll impale your father before you. No. Flee while there’s time.”
“I thought you were brave,” Hilda said. “Now I find that you’re a coward.”
“Those are cruel words, unworthy of you. I’ll fight as hard as any man.”
“Only because you’re doomed, it seems.”
“Run away with me, dearest. I beg you.”
Hilda pulled away, her head bent in thought. “I want to do what you ask, but I cannot desert my father.”
“He deserted you for his hatred. You don’t owe him anything.”
“I’m sorry, Odin. I can’t do it.”
He clutched her arm. “Why should I let the Mighty Hunter have you? What if I dragged you away?”
“Then you would be just like Nimrod.”
Her words cut, and Odin let go despite his resolve, despite what he’d told Ham this evening. Though it tore his heart, he said, “Very well. I release you.”
She smiled sadly, touching his face. “Maybe my father will kill him. We can always hope. We still have that.”
Odin nodded, but defeat gnawed at his heart and left him speechless.
“I must go,” she said. “My father suspects.”
Odin let her go, and he sat in the dark.
Thirty paces away in the moonlight, Beor eased the tension from his six-foot bow. Thoughtful, and as silent as he’d come, the big man withdrew from the forest.
19.
Beor’s Scouts spotted Nimrod’s host as it marched onto the Tigris uplands. The Babelites had twenty chariots, half as many wagons, maybe two hundred men all told.
“So few?” Assur asked. “We can marshal three times that number.”
They stood against a cliff, beside a bonfire. They were a scouting band in a clearing surrounded by pine trees.
“All two hundred of Nimrod’s warriors have armor suits,” cautioned Ham. “How many of ours do?”
“My band does,” Beor said. He wore bronze links and a massive bear cloak.
“They can’t conquer us with two hundred,” argued Assur. “Even armored in bronze they can’t.” He turned to Yorba. “Are you sure you counted right?”
Yorba swore that he had.
“Then we have him,” Assur said. “We must return and summon everyone to the standard. By his arrogance, King Nimrod falls.”
As the others hurried to their donkeys, Beor halted Ham. “Two hundred picked men. These are Nimrod’s elite, sworn no doubt to defend him to the death.”
“Assur doesn’t understand,” Ham said.
“It doesn’t matter. The key to this war is slaying Nimrod. Then the danger passes.” Beor grimaced. “Hilda won’t drive me into battle.”
“What?” Odin asked. He’d stayed with Ham.
“I’ve forbidden it,” Beor said. “So I’m in need of a driver, someone fierce, determined and with supreme skill. Grandfather, will you drive against Nimrod?”
“My eyesight is dim,” Ham said.
“But your skill isn’t and I’ve no doubt of your courage,” Beor said.
“I’d be honored,” Ham said.
Beor turned to Odin. “I’ve seen the skill with which you wield Gungnir. Will you ride with us?”
“I’m not good enough for you
r daughter,” Odin said, “but I’m good enough to die for you?”
Beor tugged at his black beard. “Perhaps you have cause for what you say. But you haven’t answered the question.”
Odin spat at the ground. “Yes. I’ll die with you.”
“I have no intention of dying,” Beor said. “But I will deal death.”
20.
Ham shifted in his bronze links, the armor heavy on his shoulders and constricting his movement. A thick leather cap studded with bronze knobs protected his head. Fear tightened his belly and a strange tingling in his arms made it hard for him to feel his fingers.
Their ten chariots waited to attack, the wheels creaking as nervous donkeys eased them back and forth. Beor stood beside him in the cart as he scanned the enemy across the rock-strewn field. Nimrod’s elite stood at the bottom of a gentle grade. The rocks weren’t a great advantage, but it was one nonetheless.
Days of maneuvering for position had led to this confrontation. The hill fort stood a league to the rear of the enemy’s wagon lager. Sunlight glittered off the spear-points of those watching on the fort’s ramparts. Perhaps eighty archers stood behind the wooden walls. They were useless now for the coming battle unless they filed out this moment and sprinted all the way to the site. If they followed Assur’s orders, they wouldn’t do that, although Ham suspected it might be a good idea.
In the wagons were the bulk of King Nimrod’s supplies. The wagons stood in a circle about three hundred paces behind the enemy shield wall.
Nimrod’s Mighty Men waited in perfect array before them. Each warrior wore burnished armor, a heavy helm and gripped a spear with a razor-sharp point. He held a vast figure-eight-shaped shield that protected his entire body. They appeared like a wall, a hedgehog with dangerous spines. Eagle, lion and dragon flags waved and snapped in the breeze. Drummers to the rear pounded out a martial beat. Nimrod in golden armor stood in the front and center of his spearmen, with huge Uruk on one side of him and Gilgamesh on the other. Their twenty chariots were divided into two squads, one on either side of the shield wall. Scythes—curved bronze blades—jutted from the center of each of the enemy’s chariot-wheels.
Facing Nimrod across the field and looking down the gentle grade shuffled Assur’s host of spear and bow-armed men. They moved in a ragged formation, a rectangular shape four times as large as Nimrod’s shield wall. All the men and boys old enough to twirl a sling had gathered from the remaining clans.
Spear-armed fighters stood in front, archers and javelineers to the rear. What a spearman wore and how he armed himself depended on his personal preferences. Most had six-foot spears, a few seven or eight foot. Two men hefted twelve-foot lances. Everyone but the lancers carried a shield, although no one had such huge monstrosities as Nimrod’s men. About half the spearmen wore leather armor of some kind, if only a thickly quilted jacket. Uniformly, they peered fearfully upon the enemy. They had neither flags nor drums to bolster their spirits, no cymbals or flutes. Compared to Nimrod’s men, they seemed like farmers, uncertain, hesitant, as if they weren’t sure what they were doing today in this dangerous place.
To the left of the unwieldy mass stood a thin line of slingers, young boys with a few older brothers. To the right—the place of honor—waited Beor’s chariots, filled with hard-eyed warriors in bronze.
“We have more men,” Ham said. “I still don’t know how we’re going to defeat them.”
“Our side won’t hold against a charge,” Beor said. “Our men are set to flee.”
“Can you blame them?” Odin asked. “Nimrod puts on a great show, shaming our men before the battle even begins.”
The enemy’s drums rumbled, quickening their beat. Flags dipped, and the Mighty Men of the front rank took their spears and beat them against their shields. Step-by-step, they began to move up the field.
Ham’s belly tightened. The enemy—his grandsons and great-grandsons—moved perfectly, while the drumming and spear-banging terrified him. Who could stop Babel’s Mighty Men? Surely not Assur’s host. Those men glanced at one another, wondering what to do, pups facing a bear.
“It’s got to be now!” Ham shouted. “We must act before our side runs away. Hiya!” he shook the reins. Beor barely grabbed the railing in time.
“What are you doing?” roared Beor, as he righted himself.
Ham aimed the chariot into the center of the field. Caught by surprise, the other chariots only now followed in a line, hurrying to catch up. “This is the moment,” Ham shouted at Beor. “We have one chance as you’ve said, and we’ve got to take it now.”
“The donkeys won’t plow into them,” Beor said. “They’ll pull up short if you try to crash them into the shield wall.”
“I know that. Whoa!” Ham sawed on the reins. “Get your bow ready. You’ve got to kill Nimrod before the battle starts.”
“You’re crazy, old man. It’s too soon.” But Beor slipped his bow free and leaped out of the chariot.
The enemy’s drumbeat changed. The shield wall stopped about one hundred and fifty paces away. Flags dipped sideways. With bellows of rage and rams’ horns blowing, both enemy chariot squads charged up the grade at Ham and Beor.
Beor stuck out his good foot, anchoring the end of his six-foot bow.
“Odin!” cried Ham. “Charge the left group. Throw them into confusion and buy us time.”
Red-bearded Odin raised Gungnir and shouted insults at Beor’s charioteers. He pointed his spear at the enemy and yelled, “Charge!” Raggedly, the eight other chariots followed, while Ham fought to keep his donkeys in place.
Beor drew his mighty bow and released. The three-foot shaft arched high and sank with sickening speed, hissing into the dirt before Nimrod’s feet.
“You’re out of range!” cried Ham.
Beor whipped out another arrow, drawing the string past his cheek. “Help me, Lord Jehovah.” Black-bearded Beor squinted, and as the thunder, crashing and rams’ horns of the charioteers sounded, he let go with a twang. In sight of the two hosts, the arrow sped, punching through Uruk’s shield, making the massive War Chief drop to his knees.
Assur’s host gave a great shout.
“Attack!” shouted Assur, waving his spear, striding at the enemy.
“Get back into the chariot,” Ham shouted at Beor. Through the ground, Ham felt the thud of many running feet.
Beor glanced over his shoulder. The mass of Assur’s men ran at them. He drew another arrow. The enemy drums pounded and the shield wall finally moved—at them.
Ham tried to hold the donkeys, but they brayed in terror, their eyes rolling as the two hosts charged one another, Assur’s at a run and Nimrod’s at an unnaturally even pace.
“Get in!” shouted Ham. The donkeys bolted then, Ham thrown back, barely able to stay on. He didn’t have time to glance at Beor or see what happened elsewhere. He fought for control as the donkeys raced to where Odin engaged the enemy charioteers in a swirling contest.
21.
Another arrow hissed with deadly velocity. Its bronze head glinted. It flew down the gentle slope, seeming to gain speed, faster, faster—aimed directly at Nimrod.
“Look out!” shouted Gilgamesh. With his shoulder, he shoved the Mighty Hunter out of the arrow’s path and then twisted aside. The arrow flashed past Gilgamesh, missing him by a hair’s breadth. Behind him, Zimri screamed.
Nimrod whipped his attention forward again, keeping in step as the drums pounded out the beat. In a crash of armor and shields and with their spears leveled, they marched at the howling mob bearing down on them.
“We’ve got to counter-charge!” shouted Gilgamesh.
“Steady in the ranks!” Nimrod roared.
Across the field, Assur’s host flowed down the grade. Some sprinted, while others hung back. It destroyed the semblance of a solid front and gave them a ragged, gapped, uneven line. It wasn’t a military formation that raced at the shield wall, but it was a cheering, bellowing mob of over three times the shield wall’s numbers.
Dreadful Beor with his awful bow—and the heart of the enemy’s zeal—drew back for another shot. Nimrod clenched his teeth, bracing himself, cursing his cousin who aimed at him. He yearned to flee the hated arrows, but knew that’s what the enemy wanted. His stomach churned. He wanted to howl and smash Beor’s head so brains and gore splattered everywhere.
At least the enemy chariots fled, following Grandfather Ham out of the fight. The first squad hounded them; yelling and screaming foul oaths and jeering at the defeated foes. The second squad bore down on Assur’s slinger flank.
Nimrod flashed his teeth in a death’s grin, for as Assur’s people swept past Beor, they bumped him. The massive oaf staggered and dropped his bow. Nimrod barked laughter. Men buffed Beor off his feet and onto his knee.
“Shield wall advance at double-time!” Nimrod roared.
The drums doubled their noise, and a wild shout, a practiced bellow issued at the same moment from all the Mighty Men. They charged up the grade.
No two hosts of war had ever run full tilt into one another. Before that awful impact occurred, man’s fear weakened his warlike resolve. He slowed his sprint as he viewed the spear points aimed at his chest. The enemy seemed so fierce, so deadly and awful. Here on this primitive field it proved true. At a little faster than a swift walk, the two hosts met, not throwing themselves upon the other, but stopping and thrusting spears or smashing shield against shield.
People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Page 16
