Ark(7)

It was then I realized I had no idea where I was or where the palace was. And even if I had known, I was far too inebriated to be able to walk on my own. I was truly at the mercy of . . .

What was his name? Had I asked?

Ignoring Irkalla’s words of caution I asked, “What is your name?” My words were slurred.

“Inanna help me,” Irkalla murmured, irritation in her voice.

I ignored her and focused on the handsome human.

Embarrassment flushed through me, and I promised myself that I would never drink so much again. Not being in control of myself, of my words, of my fate, was enough to make me angry at myself. If I had been able to know, then, how fiercely my head would throb the next morning, I would have made a vow to Inanna herself, rather than just a promise in my own head.

“Finally she asks,” he laughed. “I was wondering if perhaps you had some secret Nephilim magic that allowed you to divine a man’s name without asking. My name is Japheth, son of Noah.”

“Japheth,” I repeated, testing the flavor of his name on my tongue.

Japheth suddenly whirled around, shoving me against the wall with one hand and drew his sappara, a bronze sickle-sword, with his other. It happened so fast I never heard the attackers approach.

I had seen those weapons used before. The sappara had a crescent-shaped blade and a long handle wrapped in leather, with only the outside edge of the curve sharpened, the dull inner edge used as a hook to pull away shields or disarm an enemy. It was a difficult weapon to wield with any skill, but devastatingly effective when used by a master.

I was a woman and had never been to battle, but with five warrior brothers I’d learned my fair share about combat, so I knew a warrior when I saw one. Japheth was a dancing blur; each strike was done with a graceful, deadly economy that showed he was no stranger to battle. There were four of them, all humans, all burly, ugly, sweating, and porcine, all examples of the kind of humanity that made me understand—if not agree with—my father’s animosity toward the race.

They were armed with short spears and battle-axes; they knew what they were doing . . .

And they wanted me and Irkalla both.

Three of them encircled Japheth, attacked him at once with a furious onslaught of blows; the fourth came at me, sword held low, left hand free and reaching for me, pink tongue licking his thick lips, as if already tasting my flesh. He expected me to be like his usual prey, soft, weak human girls incapable of defending themselves.

I was a Nephilim, and we were a race of warriors, even the women.

I used the razor edge of the obsidian dagger I kept hidden in my sleeve to split his belly like a sack of grain, spilling his intestines into the street. I cursed him, knocked him to his knees with the hilt of my dagger, and spat in his face. He was a fool if he thought a Nephilim princess would be easy prey. He came at me, thinking he could wave his sword and frighten me into spreading my knees for him.

Bah. Fool.

More fools they for assuming Japheth would be easy prey. An understandable mistake for he was not a large man, nor a lumbering brute like his attackers, but lithe and quick, striking serpent-fast, each motion flowing like water into the next. He used the hook-side of his sappara to turn aside a spear-thrust, twisting the handle with a flick of his wrist and the spear fell from his enemy’s hand. Japheth grabbed the spear with his free hand, up high near the leaf-shaped blade, and thrust it into the man’s belly and twisted it, wrenching a howl of agony from him. While he speared the man, his sword was not idle. He turned aside an axe and hacked into an exposed neck, dropping the second. The third realized he was outmatched and tried to run. His eyes were on Japheth, so he did not see me coming from the shadows to bury my blade in his throat. I was sprayed with his blood as he fell.

“My lady?” Japheth was next to me, wiping at my face with the edge of his robe. “Are you hurt?”

“No . . . no. The blood is theirs,” I gestured to the bodies bleeding out into the sand. My hand was coated with in blood. “These aren’t the first men you’ve killed.”

“No, Highness. I served in your father’s army. He may hate my people, but he’ll conscript us to fight his wars readily enough.” His voice was edged with bitterness.

Japheth hung the sappara from his belt, took my wrist, and cleaned my hand with his tunic. His fingers were warm on my skin; his touch sent a tingle up my arm.

“That is true enough. He puts your kind at the front and watches them die. He says they fall like heads of wheat under the sickle.”

“Most do.”

“But not you?” The adrenaline had washed away the effects of the wine for the most part.

He let go of my hand and set off toward the palace. I took stride next to him, slipping my fingers in his. I felt bold, reckless; something about this man erased my prudence.

Following behind, Irkalla had given up trying to admonish me. I knew all she wanted now was to see me home, safely in my bed.

He looked down at our twined hands and then up at me, but he did not remove his hand from mine. “I am not like most men. Men, such as those back there, they would go down in battle like heads of wheat, as you have said. And even you Nephilim are not so hard to kill, if you’re fast enough.” He glanced sideways at me to assess the impact of his words.

“Do not let my brothers hear you say that,” I said. “They will show you otherwise.”