Ark(27)

Japheth found the barracks quickly, dismissing thoughts of home and his parents, standing rigid and silent as he waited for the mercenary troop captain to make his decision. A few questions about battles and fighting styles had Ulun convinced that Japheth wasn’t a novice. He was assigned to a phalanx of other mercenary humans, all destined to be front-rank battle fodder whenever the time came.

As he set about getting a bunk and securing the proper equipment, he heard the other men discussing the coming orders. Japheth had noticed a sense of urgency in the barracks—men were sharpening blades, polishing mail, repairing footwear and rolling cloaks, packing pouches with extra rations of food; they were preparing for war.

“What’s happening?” Japheth asked the man nearest him.

“New, eh?” The man was short and barrel-chested, with a hard, round gut and two fingers missing from his left hand. “Uruk attacked Ur yesterday, so our glorious king—forever may he reign—has joined forces with Emmen-Utu of Bad-Tibira. We’re going to take Uruk while it’s empty of its best soldiers. Seems a cowardly tactic, but I don’t make the decisions.”

Japheth was stunned. He’d just left that city a week ago, and he wondered if Zidan and the merchant had left before the attack; behind the walls of a besieged city was not a good place to be.

He cursed under his breath—he’d inadvertently joined a war. His chances of getting to Sin-Iddim were now less than nil. He’d joined the Larsan army, and he couldn’t very well renege now. Like all the other soldiers, he began to gear up.

Perhaps in the heat of battle he’d be able to forget Aresia.



As it turned out, Uruk hadn’t sent their entire army to Ur.

The Larsan army had spent two days gearing up, gathering supplies, readying the supply trains, and organizing for the march, and then had spent another week marching to Uruk.

A day’s march from Uruk, scouts had returned claiming that forces were waiting for them outside Uruk, but their total numbers were unknown. What was supposed to be an easy raid on an empty city had suddenly turned into something much, much worse. Japheth was in the very first line of human warriors as the Larsan army approached Uruk.

Dust kicked up under his feet, and his fist ached from clenching his shield strap so tightly. Heat blasted from the sun, bright overhead, sending sweat trickling down his temple and making the haft of his spear slippery in his grip.

About a league from the city walls of Uruk, a massive line of Nephilim warriors waited for them, spears bristling between man-high rectangular shields. Sunlight glistened off burnished helmets and polished mail. Except for the tramp of sandaled feet, silence reigned.

Sin-Iddim hadn’t accompanied the foray all the way to the battlefield outside Uruk’s walls, instead setting up a royal tent a few leagues away, sending his most senior general, a massive, dour Nephilim named Dagan. The Larsan general did not slow his army when he sighted the line waiting for them. He merely assessed the situation, ordered the siege equipment to stay back, and called the charge.

Fear clamped down on his bowels as he jogged beside his line-mates. The man to his left smelled of piss, and the man on the other side looked ready to break formation any moment. Japheth roared a wordless battle-cry and began running slowly, knowing the rest would follow. On the field of battle, men needed only an example to find their own courage. The entire line sped forward to keep up with him, the line ragged and uneven, wide gaps between shields, and that was when he realized the entire front line was made of green recruits.

This would be a slaughter.

Japheth found himself calling on Elohim for protection, even though he had been trying to convince himself he didn’t believe in his father’s One God. Protect me, Elohim, if you are listening.

That was all the prayer he had time for before the two front lines met with a thunderous clash of metal and flesh and bone and screams. Both of the men beside him died in the first clash.

Immediately prior to the moment of impact, Japheth thrust his huge rectangular shield in front of him and couched his spear in his armpit, leaning forward into his shield and keeping his head behind it, his center of balance low. His whole body juddered as he collided with the opposite line; his spear shook and jumped in his grip, and he heard a wet squish and a grunt of expelled breath. Japheth bashed forward with his shield and yanked his spear backward, hearing a dull wet sucking sound as the blade was released by flesh.

Sweat stung his eyes, and Japheth wiped it away with a forearm, glancing around him to assess the battle. Sin-Iddim had mustered five thousand warriors, which only represented a quarter of his total army’s strength; he hadn’t seen the necessity of sending every available man, since Uruk was supposed to be mostly empty of soldiers. The king of Uruk, however, had foreseen a potential ambush and had left behind what seemed to Japheth’s practiced eye to be nearly three thousand warriors. Uruk was outnumbered, but those few warriors left behind were the cream of Uruk’s crop, the doughtiest, hardiest, most seasoned soldiers, and they were acquitting themselves with a vengeance. Withing minutes, it was obvious that even though Larsa had the advantage of numbers, those bodies were mostly green and unseasoned by battle, and were quickly and easily hewn down by their more experienced opponent. Emmen-Utu’s army had joined the fray, turning the tide against Uruk; the battle was far from over, however.

Four Nephilim warriors charged at him across the killing field, one of them a full head taller than the rest, making him truly giant even by Nephilim standards. Japheth’s heart stopped and his blood ran cold—one he could manage, maybe even two, but not four. He felt a presence beside him and turned to see Kichu standing next to him.