The soldiers were coming his way. It was no mistake or coincidence. Six men with spears and short blades. He could probably overpower them all, especially since the width of the alley would not let more than two of them charge at the same time.
“Big man,” the squad leader called, his face patched in tufts of curly, thin hair; a young, impudent soldier, eager to prove his worth. The recent slaughter must have riled him up. A dangerous combination.
One of the peddlers nervously offered him fruit. The soldier batted it away and pushed past the cringing seller. The large citrus rolled on the hard ground, kicked by sandaled feet.
“Yes, My Lord?” Shimshon made himself say in a flat, emotionless tone.
“You are way too strong to spend your life berating your wife in the street. You ought to join the army.”
Shimshon weighed his words. “I have seen my share of fighting.”
“This isn’t a request,” the soldier said, a wicked smirk dancing on his lips.
“Where do you come from?” another asked, face tightened into a scowl, eyes too close together.
Good lies always have a grain of truth. Shimshon never lied, but he couldn’t risk Dlila’s life. The death of Prince Zabul had spoiled all his plans and preparations, and he had to adapt. Still, this calculated cowardice maddened him. He hated being weak, hated giving in to threats. Any other day, he’d bash the man’s head into the wall and leave the crimson stain as a warning to all other patrols.
“I come from Bezer. I’m just a trader. I want to go home.”
One of the soldiers snickered. “There is war, did you not notice?”
The leader pursed his lips. “Bezer? Are you an Israelite?”
Shimshon bristled. “No. Ammonite.”
“Well then, there’s no reason for you to hurry. Your towns have been destroyed.”
Shimshon let his anger show, for just an instant. Let them interpret that how they wanted.
“The land of Ammon is gone. The great serpent has killed your people and razed all the cities to the ground. Your god is dead. Your life has no value any more, and you should be thankful that you have escaped death. You belong to the serpent now. You are his servant.”
Shimshon flexed his fists, just once. It took a great restraint to remain still, looking weak.
“There. Now, you will come with us. Prince Gog needs soldiers for the attack against Iehuda and Biniamin. You are strong. You will fit in well.”
Shimshon carefully weighed every word, every expression. This was a good opportunity to get closer to the Cimmerian leader, as he’d hoped. To learn more about the enemy and their tactics, probe their weaknesses, and, ultimately, cut their heads off their shoulders. But what about Dlila? And the priests?
She was staring at him, terrified, on the verge of fresh tears. He could not leave her.
If he killed these warriors now, it would not end until either he died, or all the enemy had been killed. He doubted he could slay all the Magog and their allies today.
I promised to protect her, but now I must break that promise. I must abandon her.
You are a coward, Shimshon.
No. I must do this, because it is the wise thing. Sometimes, the sword is not the answer.
You are a coward and a liar, and you will leave the woman you love in the clutches of these monsters.
The Plishtim are her people. She will not be harmed.
Coward.
And then...he had to go back to the City of David to speak to the kohanim.
He had followed the pain in his stomach for months now, and he let it be his guide once more. He was surrounded by omens and he could not fight them.
Melek is gone. I must trust Elohim, now.
He hated that thought, but he knew it was the right thing.
He had made his choice that day in the desert. He made it again when he turned his back on the bloody square. And now, he had to decide again.
The priests would not let Aluf Hananiel fight the men of Gomer, Meshekh, and Tubal. There was a reason for that. There was a reason why Tariav could not attack Biniamin and Iehuda. Elohim had power over the dragon. Shimshon had to believe in that power.
He had to.
He must not spill blood.
Today, I must choose a different path. The kohanim will wait for my return.
Somehow, he knew they would.
“Let me bid farewell to my wife,” he said, trying to look resigned.
The leader snorted. “Make haste, big man.”
Shimshon stepped back. In that moment, Dlila’s fingers slipped between his and gripped tightly, fiercely, with more force than he had expected from her. His eyes locked with hers. Beautiful, mesmerizing carob eyes. There was no animosity in them. No glint of betrayal. Her earlier terror was almost gone, subdued, replaced by determination.
He also saw worry for him and his heart skipped a beat.
She was strong in spirit, just as he was strong in body. She had seen her father die, followed Shimshon to Bavel, seen the destruction of Rabba, and now she had come to this den of serpents with him. Despite everything, she still followed him. That took courage and dedication.In the midst of her people, engulfed by the danger that he heralded, she chose him.
It is not about the dragon or the kohanim. It’s about keeping Dlila safe. “I will find you. Stay in town. Do not leave the lodge unless you have to.”
“Be careful, Shimshon. Please.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he told her, their faces only a finger-breadth apart. “I will keep my promise.”
“I know you will,” she whispered. “I...” She tried to say something, something meaningful, but her words choked off.
What? He wondered, pain erupting in his chest. What? He didn’t even dare think it, but the idea rose unbidden in his mind. Love?
He inhaled deeply several times to clear his head, to keep his boiling wrath down. Maybe Dlila could not help him get into the prince’s palace right now, but these fools surely could. It did not matter how he got to kill the enemy, as long as he avenged his king. Maybe not today, but he would slay the dragon, and any fool that followed in its shadow.
Shimshon turned toward the waiting soldiers. “I am ready.”
CHAPTER KAF-VAV
PRINCE GOG WANTS TO SEE YOU
Fools.
Only fools would let their enemy walk among them, unchallenged.
For a few rainy days, every morning, Shimshon watched the myriads of enemy soldiers break camp and march northeast. He mended his loaned tack and armor, polished a simple, crude bronze blade—no gray metal for common men pressed into service—and carefully mapped the faces and names of the chieftains and great warriors among the Gomer and the Meshekh.
One by one, he made sure to remember those he intended to slay, with great pleasure.
He had been forced to join the army and then assigned to a mixed unit full of frightened or overzealous Plishtim and men of the sword who had traveled from Mizr with the winds of rumor and greed at their back. While the latter showed enthusiasm for combat, most of his comrades had been conscripted against their will. Prince Gog was quick to assert his dominance and wanted to create a legacy; a different kind of ruler than these people had known before. Even the smallest disobedience was punished brutally, swiftly.
Idle hands were made busy by giving them tools to sharpen weapons, collect dung, or repair city walls and houses. Beggars were rounded up and made to choose between death or life as soldiers under the pale-haired lords. Wagons full of painted women were coming in to Gat from the far corners of the world to satisfy the Magog and their allies.
But even a well-organized host like that of Prince Gog had its troubles. There weren’t enough mules to drag carts, not enough weapons for all its fighters, spoiled food, and angry men fighting over whores or coins won in a game. Smiths labored day and night to produce enough blades for everyone. Shimshon had yet to be given his full uniform.
This endless waiting worried him. Stalling was ne
ver his strong suit. It maddened him, dulled his senses, made him edgy and impetuous, and meant he might blunder, somehow. Meanwhile, the hosts of the serpent were marching closer to Biniamin with every passing day, and soon they would clash with the Israelites. He had not been concerned about the safety of the men and women and children of the City of David, but now, with his mother there, with the power of the kohanim so distant, dulled by the noise of the dragon and its followers, his conviction was fading. In its place, worry burgeoned, and his mind was full of difficult questions.
Often as not, he thought about Dlila.
She had not betrayed him. But was she still waiting for him in Gat?
This was her land, her people. She might have gone home, as empty as it may have been. Longing made people careless.
She may have just fled the madness.
Despite his misgivings, he was glad for the indecision and delay. They gave him time to study his enemy, to learn their weaknesses. When he joined the battle with the alufs of Iehuda and Biniamin—and he no longer had any doubt there would come such a moment—he would know where to hurt the foe the most.
But soon, his mind began to wander…
Hardly an hour passed without his thoughts straying from military plans to his ponderings about his family, his legacy.
Who was he? Did he belong among the Hebrews, as his mother would want him to? What did the death of his people mean? That he had no identity anymore? That he could choose a new nation and become a part of it, at his convenience? Could he simply forget his loyalty to his king, to his father, just because Rabba lay in a pile of soot and rubble? Did loyalties to oneself die with the death of one’s friends?
This was one war he could not win.
He glanced up at the bright clouds and squinted. He hadn’t seen the beast lately. It must be hunting across the land, burning, killing. He wanted to escape from the dusty camp and track the serpent, but he had no answers yet, and such an action would endanger Dlila.
He swallowed his pride and waited. There would be a sign. An omen.
“Hey, you.” A voice made all his daydreams crumble to dust. It was a blessed diversion.
He knew they meant him. The tone might be haughty, but it was underlined with fear and respect. Even bolstered with thick ranks of their brothers-in-arms, these invaders were cowards, and they knew they must not provoke his wrath.
Shimshon slowly raised his gaze to the assembly of soldiers. There was a Pleshet man in the front, surrounded by the pale-haired, pale-eyed people from the north. They all stared at him with a fickle, empty challenge in their eyes.
I shall slay you all one day.
“Prince Gog wants to see you,” the local said. “Put your weapons down.”
Taking his time, Shimshon lowered his sword to the ground, then rose. He glanced at a fellow warrior, who was throwing him and the Cimmerians quick, furtive glances from under his thick, silvered brows.
“Keep my weapons safe,” Shimshon barked. “If they aren’t here when I return, I will hold you responsible.”
Staying at a safe distance from his muscular reach, the Gomer fighters led him away from the camp, from the noise and the reek, and made him climb onto the back of a small cart, a fly-ridden mule flapping its tattered, gray ears at the front.
Shimshon flexed his hands.
Had he been discovered? Did they know who he was? His only concern was for Dlila. He could take care of himself. He noticed the fresh fright and respect in the eyes of his escort, and that pleased him. But there was no indication of violence, of blood to be spilled. Perhaps these men knew nothing of his identity.
If they did, they would not have sent this rabble to take me away.
In the cart, two other men sat; broad, muscled backs resting against rough planks. Shimshon wedged himself between their sweaty, stinking forms. The wagon lurched into motion, swaying from side to side, old wood groaning.
He eyed the pair. Big, heavyset men. One had skin like the Kishon mud, the other was hairy and stern-faced. They looked nervous.
Soon, he noticed where the cart and escort were going. West, into the city. They wound down narrow streets lined with soothsayers and whores. Everyone followed the serpent now, and the diviners were dressed in red and gold, screeching, spitting.
The crowds got thicker, then cleared.
The palace lay ahead.
It looked like an ugly hump of broken stone. Shimshon smiled. I did want to go there. He stared at the large building, contemplating murder. Perhaps this was an omen.
Shattered statues of the Pleshet deities still marked the court, its dust turned filthy red with old blood. The enemy had not bothered clearing away the signs of butchery from several days past. Maybe it was the warning for the local populace, maybe just negligence. And maybe the serpent had commanded them to leave the rubble, as a sign of its victory and power.
Shadow fell over the wagon as it rumbled under the gate arch toward the stables on the north side of the palace. The hairy man sharing the straw pallet closed his fists into painful, white-knuckled balls.
“Move slowly and prostrate when you see the prince,” the Plishti warned, walking alongside the cart, toting his spear nervously.
“Get down,” the soldier snapped as the cart creaked to a halt.
Flesh dies, Shimshon kept repeating to himself. Human, dragon; it all dies.
Soon, Shimshon was surrounded by soldiers, a dozen blades leveled at him and his two companions. The enemy was taking no chances.
“Walk. Slowly.”
The Gomer men led them toward a dark entrance opposite the stables. Shimshon noticed more groups converging on the palace, usually single men, all big and heavy like he was, led by guards toting swords and spears. His curiosity deepened, and he put away his wrath so he could focus and learn.
Inside, the prince’s lavish hall was decorated with Sidonian marble and cedar, and fragrant torches lit the clear but dim expanse. The hall was as long as it was wide, and along the walls to the left and right, the idols of the Pleshet gods looked like they had been deliberately damaged with hammers and chisels. Arms, legs, and noses were missing, and the floor was littered with debris.
And there he was, Prince Gog, sprawled on his own, elevated seat of smooth, veined rock. A large crescent bench of polished stone nearby seated a handful of armed men who tried to look smug and disinterested at Shimshon’s approach. More men were standing, flanking the prince. There was a loud noise, like cats mewing or fighting, coming from the shadows that stretched behind the bench.
For an instant, the prince looked at him, and their gazes locked.
This is an omen.
A jingle of armor and weapons alerted him, and he saw the other groups—the strong, muscled men and their escorts—enter after him. Some looked like Plishtim, others like captured Israelites, beaten and worn and dispirited, and there was one tall fool with flaxen hair. He was the only one smiling.
Shimshon’s two companions stank of fear. The hairy man was quietly mumbling to himself, and the dark-skinned fellow just stared with those big, smoky eyes, watching the prince with abject terror.
Coward.
“Kneel,” someone ordered.
Instantly, everyone went down on their knees and pressed their heads to the cold stone—everyone except him and the smiling fool.
Shimshon ignored the hissed urges and the wave of angry spears. He would not bow before any man.
The fool giggled, a sound very much like that of a deaf child.
The prince raised a brow and muttered something.
“Bring that one closer,” a small, withered man said, translating from the ugly language the people of Gomer spoke.
An older man in a flowing blue robe leaned close to Prince Gog, arms tucked into opposing sleeves. He had a large chain hanging from his neck with stars and phases of the moon made from amber. That must be a sky guide, Shimshon thought.
A rough hand pushed against Shimshon’s back. Rather than stumbling, Shimshon merely
let himself be nudged. He did turn. He made sure to remember the face. The soldier’s expression wavered.
“You are a big man,” Gog’s mouth continued, as Shimshon drew all the attention of the room.
One of the Magog chieftains said something. The other warlords snickered.
“Take your head cover off.”
Shimshon hesitated. The dye in his rusty locks held, but traces of russet were showing underneath the mixture of ashes and soot. Within a few days, with more rain, he would not be able to maintain his disguise so easily anymore.
“Take your head cover off, or I will take your head off.”
A large man with golden hair rose from the bench, all armor and fur that was too hot even for the rainy season. His hideous helmet hung from a leather strap off his belt, and his sword weighed the other hip. Around Shimshon, the other prisoners squirmed, frightened. They didn’t want to be too close if the enemy decided to use their blades.
Shimshon just smiled. He had killed these foreigners before, he could do it again.
But destroying Prince Gog was more important.
Try now and die a heroic but possibly futile death?
Or bide his time and act only when he knew more about his foe?
You know why you’re here. Have faith.
Slowly, Shimshon reached up to his temple. “You must ask nicely.”
The slave translated. Deep, genuine laughter erupted among the chieftains. Several more Magog rose. One of them was rubbing the ridge of his palm over his snakehead hilt. But if they were trying to make him nervous, they failed. He could see their own itchiness, and he let a bigger, broader smile touch his face.
“I heard my troops recruited a most fearless man. Where do you hail from?” Prince Gog asked, easing the tension a little.
Shimshon looked at the enemy ruler. He had the insolent face of a man who felt invincible. “Ammon.”
“And who do you worship now?”
Shimshon shrugged, and his gesture made the dozen spearmen behind him twitch their weapons. “Melek.”
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 16
