Day of War (4 page)

Benaiah tossed the root into the pit below. The lion snarled and drew back into the darkness, waiting for him. He would leap from the edge, land with the spear raised, and pin the lion as fast as possible. Once the spearhead was buried to the heart, he would grab
the root and stab its neck. Then the people in the village would never perish in its jaws again.

Benaiah himself might be the lion’s last kill.

He closed his eyes, pushing the thought from his mind, feeling the prickle of snow on his face. His hands clenched and unclenched. The last of the gray twilight faded. The beast roared, and Benaiah felt it watching him, waiting for him, amber eyes boring into him and craving the taste of his flesh.

This had to be done.

He nodded.

He would be free. She would be free of him.

Benaiah shook his head, trying to focus on the lion and how he would kill it, on what type of maneuver might, against all odds, keep him alive, but the black depths of the pit reminded him of a room he’d known, of the day of sorrow. That day came back to him — the day all was lost.

There was darkness, endless darkness, and screaming, and the smell of blood. Blood covering the doorway, blood in the room, bits of hair across the stone floor. He heard the sound of families throughout the town wailing and moaning in grief, the smell of smoke drifting, cries to Yahweh. A raid. How could he have allowed this?

Benaiah looked for Sherizah, called for her. There she was, his wife, in the corner, her hands over her eyes, her cries filled with anguish. He shook her. What happened?
What happened?
She shook uncontrollably. Blood was everywhere, the room cold and dark.

Where are they? Where are they?
he’d yelled at her.

Gone. Killed. They are gone …

And he was away. He was away …

Benaiah blinked.

He was above the pit, in the snow, with the lion.

The wet on the edge of his eyes stung in the cold. He wiped
them quickly. The black pit gaped in front of him. He felt its darkness in his bones. He squeezed his fists and felt his hands shaking again. He pulled absently at his collar with his thumb.

There was something the chief always said.

Cover me in the day of war.

He shook his head.

Benaiah breathed a few more times, enjoying the snow and the rage of the storm gripping the pass above him. Then he leaped over the side.

As soon as Benaiah hit the ground, the lion leaped from the shadows. The creature’s hot, rancid breath, like that of the first lion, had the stench of decay. Before Benaiah could fully raise his spear, he saw a flash of bloody fur in the dusk and the lion was on him, swatting his spear aside.

They rolled over together. The spear out of reach, Benaiah pulled his dagger and plunged it into the beast’s flank. The blade skipped off a rib. The jaws snapped at Benaiah’s head again and again. He forced his fist into the open jaws and shoved his arm down the throat, trying to prevent the fangs from piercing his skull. The lion tried to roar again, its voice now muffled by the arm down its throat, and raked its claws painfully against Benaiah’s side, crushing him beneath its weight. The paws pinned his dagger hand against his body.

Benaiah searched frantically for the spear nearby, needing it if he was to have any chance. One of his shoulders was buried in the
lion’s throat, the other pinned to his side. The fangs buried in his shoulder hurt so badly that Benaiah fought to remain conscious.

Something caught his sight in the snow.

The root, only a handbreadth out of reach.

The paw pinning down Benaiah’s weapon arm released for just a moment, and he used it to stab his dagger into the side of the lion’s face. It roared, sending specks of saliva into his eyes and ears.

Benaiah pulled free and scampered backward until he reached the wall of the pit, gasping for breath, his arm bloody and burning. The lion was pawing at the dagger sticking out of the side of its face. Its jaw hung limp. When the animal roared and snarled, it sounded almost sloppy. The blade must have severed some of the muscles in its jaw.

Despite the searing pain of the claw wounds, Benaiah leaped forward, knowing the animal would outlast him if he did not mortally wound it fast. He snatched up the root, shouted, and rammed it into the lion just behind the shoulder, near its heart.

The root pierced the rough hide and entered the soft interior flesh. The lion convulsed and shrieked with fury, twisting away and jerking the shaft from Benaiah’s grip, flinging blood into Benaiah’s eyes from the wound.

He staggered backward and wiped his brow. When he could see again, he noticed the lion in the corner of the pit. The root thumped back and forth as the lion darted around trying to dislodge it. Benaiah looked for the spear but could not find it in the swirl of dirt, snow, and blood.

He rushed toward the lion again, grabbing the root and hanging onto it to prevent it from snapping as the lion thrashed around. The gouts of blood pumping out of the wound told Benaiah that he had struck near the heart, but not near enough. The animal was not dying. If anything, its roaring and thrashing increased.

The shaft of the root, slick with blood, slid through Benaiah’s
hands. He tried to grip it harder. A rotten stench rushed across his nostrils. The root had penetrated the bowels of the animal.

The lion curled into a ball and then rolled violently sideways, catching Benaiah off guard and knocking him over. He lost his grip on the root; his head thudded against the rocks. He saw a bright shock of light. Fighting past the throbbing in his head, he reached out into the snow for something to fight back with. Why wasn’t it dying? Claws, pain, burning. Where was the spear?

There was a huge roar, and the lion pinned him again. He gagged at the rotten breath. He arched his back in panic—and felt something beneath him.

The spear.

Screaming with his last burst of panic-stricken energy, he lurched to the side and shoved the lion away from him. His arm came free enough to reach the spear and swing it around, hoping to drive its head into the lion’s throat.

Too late he realized that he had shoved the wrong end forward, and the dull end cap of the spear thudded harmlessly against the golden hide. Before he could turn it and try again, claws raked the side of his head, pounding him so hard that he almost blacked out. He felt numb, as though the cuts from the claws were so brutal that they had bypassed all pain.

A short flap of skin from his torn scalp now hung over his left eye. He pushed it out of the way, but it kept falling back, blocking his view. As the lion reared for another strike, Benaiah rolled out of its path and stumbled toward the wall of the pit.

With his clear eye, he saw a branch sticking out from the wall of the pit overhead. He jumped for it. He missed it on the first try and fell to his knees. The lion roared. He could hear it crawling toward him. Its wounds were finally taking a toll, or it would have leaped.

Benaiah jumped again and managed to wedge his hand between the branch and the frozen mud of the pit wall. Just as the lion’s
paw swiped at his leg, he pulled himself up out of reach. The beast snarled at him but was apparently too wounded to leap.

Benaiah panted. His breath curled out in icy tendrils against the darkness of the pit. The rumbling growl of the lion came from below him, and even though he was only a few cubits above the monster, he could barely make it out in the dark, with only the large puffs of frozen breath drifting upward as it roared indicating its location. Benaiah’s arm shook from the strain of holding him in place on the branch.

He had to deal with the skin hanging over his eye, which was swelling so quickly that soon he would be unable to see out of it. The lion might be in its death throes, but it would live long enough to kill him if he didn’t kill it first. A thought occurred to him: simply hang onto the branch until the lion bled out. But the growling below him continued. How was this possible? The spear must have ripped the lion’s insides to pieces. The resiliency of predators amazed him — and how they defied the call of death to exact revenge on their hunter.

Benaiah was suddenly very cold. The snowflakes stung his open wounds.

He saw his wife’s face in the darkness. She was holding out a pouch of water to him, and he reached for it … for her.

He shook his head; he was going delirious with pain.

Benaiah fished in his belt for his second flint dagger, a smaller one that he only used for skinning game.

It was still there.

Pulling the blade out with his damaged arm while he held on to the root with the good one, he dug the point into the skin above his eye and sliced a small part of the flap away from his scalp. His head was still numb from the paw strike and he barely felt it, but the fresh wash of blood pouring down his face was a nuisance.

The lion roared again, but this time, he thought with soaring
hope, it sounded weaker. He had to move now and finish it before he became too weak.

Benaiah let go of the root and collapsed onto the snow. The lion charged. Benaiah snatched up the spear with the correct side forward this time, and as the beast opened its jaws wide to bite, Benaiah aimed the spearhead into the black opening and held on for his life.

The spear slid down the lion’s throat and penetrated deep into its bowels, all the way up to Benaiah’s fist. His arm entered the throat again, but the jaws no longer snapped. He heard a dull rumble from deep inside the creature’s throat. The bloody shaft started to slide in his hand. He tried to keep his hand clenched but his strength was running out. The paws swatted at him, but with little force. The animal was finally dying.

Slowly, when it seemed like the entire pit would fill with blood, the roars became weaker and the thrashing softened. The lion struggled a bit longer and then coughed out a pink mist and lay still.

Benaiah let his head fall onto the patch of ice next to the lion. He listened to the cold wind whistling across the mouth of the pit. He wondered vaguely how much blood he had lost. He packed lumps of snow into the wounds on his head and arm to stop the bleeding. He shivered. The great body of the lion was still steaming, so he leaned against it for warmth.

The cold weather, exhaustion from the struggle, loss of blood, and heat from the carcass made sleep nearly irresistible. He slapped his face to wake himself up. He had to keep moving so that he wouldn’t fall asleep and freeze to death.

Benaiah sat up and tried to focus on the icy ground around him. It was almost completely dark now; only moments of light remained. The lion was still leaking blood onto the snow. Benaiah’s spear was buried in the carcass and the dagger protruded from its mouth.

When enough strength had returned that he knew he could climb, Benaiah crawled toward the dead lion and knelt on its head
while he tugged at his weapons. The dagger came out easily, but the spear needed several hard pulls before it finally came loose. He left the root buried in the carcass.

Benaiah tossed the weapons out of the pit onto the hillside above and studied his predicament. Snow still drifted in twenty cubits above. He searched up and down the wall for a route to scale on the ice and loose rock. The hunters who had dug the ancient trap had done their work well; he could not easily spot a way out. Small drifts of snow were accumulating on every surface of the wall, and it was getting colder.

He spat blood to clear the coppery taste from his mouth. He stepped up to the wall and began to climb, one carefully chosen handhold or foothold at a time, slipping backward every time he gained traction. Progress was slow, but eventually he pulled himself over the lip of the pit and lay on his side.

It was now dark. The moon occasionally peeked between the storm clouds. The snow had stopped falling but the wind was picking up, pushing another storm up through the valley and causing bits of ice to sting his exposed flesh. His mind was in a fog. His sweaty tunic clung to his back, causing him to shiver. He needed to get out of the mountains fast.

Still, he took the time first to bind his open wounds. He pulled strips of linen from his pouch and wrapped them tight. Then he wrapped his cloak back around his shoulders, wincing, strapped the shield onto his back, and picked up his weapons. He knotted together the two ends of the broken string on his bow and slung the weapon over his shoulder.

He worked his way to the route that would take him straight down the slope. He ran his finger along the jagged edge of the cuts on his head and arm, wearily grateful that he had not been eviscerated by the claws.

Around him the landscape had become a sea of white powder
and black ice-covered rock. His fingers were numb. He slipped and fell every few steps, yelling in agony as hidden branches and jagged rocks disguised in the snow stabbed him.

Benaiah came across the tracks in the snow where Jairas and Haratha had left the main path. He could make out a forest far below where he remembered seeing the creek that led back to the village. He hoped he would run into the other two before long, so that he would not have to navigate unfamiliar terrain in his weakened condition. He focused on one step at a time, trying to keep his mind as clear as possible through the cold and the pain, sensing that the storm was getting worse.

Benaiah picked his way down the pass and into the forest he had seen from above. Several times the game trail he was following split apart, and he would debate with himself which direction to take — until a brief lull in the snowfall would allow him to see which route would lead him back to the stream.

The weather changed abruptly as he stepped out of the forest into a clearing. Behind him, the boughs of the trees were heavy laden with snow, and yet where he stood everything was slick with rain. Confused, he stopped for a moment. It was beautiful — the lightning and thunder of a spring rainstorm in front and the white-out of the snowstorm further up the mountain. Rain pelted his face. He let the cold water wash through the cuts on his head, enjoying the tingling pain and letting it revive him.

He suddenly felt very weary. Before he knew it he was sitting on a rock to rest. Thunder rumbled up the valley. He vowed to rest only for a short while to let his blood-drained body recover. He rested his face in his hands, shivering in the cold.

Lightning flashed, and he looked up again. It was easy to be lulled by the thunder. Storm clouds and snow clouds mingled overhead, illuminated by the lightning. Benaiah looked over his shoulder in the direction he had just come.

He felt his neck prickle.

He had seen something in the lightning flash. Another lion? He strained his eyes, but no object materialized.

In his exhausted state he almost ignored it and kept walking, but discipline reminded him to never doubt the fear instinct, which warned of danger long before the mind. He stared at the woods and waited for the next lightning flash.

A man was standing in the path.

Benaiah could not make out the man’s face. He saw what looked like a cloak similar to his own draped around the man’s shoulders, but the rest of him was obscured by the snow still falling in the forest.

At first Benaiah thought it might be Jairas. But where was Haratha? Had Jairas left him behind? Benaiah waited for the next flash and gestured for the man to come, but he did not move.

Benaiah gripped his spear and slowly reached for the hilt of his sword—before remembering he had given it to Jairas.

A sickening feeling crept over him. He felt the pain in his wounds pulsing. The man was still far up the trail, but now Benaiah thought he could hear a quiet voice close by, as though someone was standing only an arm’s length away. He strained his ears to understand, but the storm and wind were too loud, the voice too soft.

Lightning flared again. The figure was moving toward him.

Alarmed now, Benaiah ignored the swelling stiffness of his arm and held a spear at the ready. The wet darkness was becoming oppressive. He stared hard at the spot where he’d last seen the figure, waiting for another lightning strike. None came.

He shook his head and wiped his eyes, unable to see anything in
the blackness. He kept the spear shaft tight in his grip. Somewhere down the valley the thunder was rumbling.

Suddenly the moon erupted from behind a cloud and the area was bathed in silver light. Benaiah’s heart jumped. The man was directly in front of him, as tall as a tree. Fear wrapped around his throat and Benaiah found it impossible to breathe.

The figure held a shadowy sword, glowing with some unknown pale, cold light, sideways as though preparing to swing it at Benaiah’s head. All was happening too fast. Benaiah tried to push his spear forward into the warrior’s midsection, but his blood felt like it had frozen. Moonlight glinted off the man’s armor. The figure was immense and powerful, taller than any man Benaiah had ever seen, cubits taller than himself.

But worse than the man’s size and the menacing weapon he carried, Benaiah was suddenly overcome with the greatest feeling of despair of his life. Every terrible thought and sorrow he had ever felt came back. His eyes clamped shut in fright.

He tried to move but only gagged, angry at his helplessness and fear in front of this demon from Sheol.

Then he was overcome with flashes of memories: of blood on stones, of a woman, his wife, screaming and shaking, of a sun-washed seacoast far to the south, and Pharaoh’s entourage gathered on the hillside watching him battle, watching him lose ground in the hot sand, growing weaker, giving way before a great mountain of a man who swung a spear so viciously.

His mind was overrun with dark images. Fear shook him, leaving him unable to strike or defend or move in any way.

The sword that stretched from the arm of the warrior slashed forward, and all Benaiah could do was watch.

A clang as the sword struck. Benaiah cringed, expecting to be dead.

Another sword, glowing hot with tongues of fire, was a handbreadth from his face. Through the rain, he could see that it had blocked the sword of the dark figure.

Benaiah watched, terrified and still unable to move.

The flaming sword slashed fast and high, and then Benaiah saw that it was wielded by another warrior who had just arrived. The new man’s armor glinted, but it was the flaming sword that Benaiah could not stop staring at. It moved faster than he thought a man could move it, cutting and striking, pushing the dark figure back to the snow line.

The two fighters contended with each other across the wet landscape, the flaming sword driving with endless power and speed until finally Benaiah lost sight of them in the mist covering the snowy tree line.

Benaiah let his breath escape. His arms shook, and the spear clattered to the ground. His eyes could not leave the tree line.

Then the moon disappeared again, the rain increased, and cold mist drew up around him. His wounds burned, rousing him from his stupor. His combat instincts kicked in. Summoning his strength, Benaiah picked up the spear and trotted down the path, unable to stop himself from looking frantically over his shoulder every few moments. The damp cold was getting to him. His muscles quivered uncontrollably. He was now so wet that conserving energy to avoid sweating was pointless, and more importantly, if he did not keep his blood pumping he would freeze. He found himself running. The path twisted down the mountainside, barely discernible in the dark.

What he had just witnessed must have been his mind tricking him. Had to be the wounds, he thought. Maybe the infection from the claws was setting in already, making him mad.

His own steady footfalls lulled him, and before long he realized
that it had stopped raining. He paused briefly to look behind him up the pass. He could still see the storm in the high country. Lightning flickered in the clouds and thunder rolled gently. There was no sign of the two warriors.

Benaiah resumed his trot. Exhaustion crept into his limbs. His knees buckled each time he hopped down from a rock in the trail. A swirling, numb feeling seeped through his head, and he could feel his pulse slow.

He slipped on a wet log and pitched forward, too weak now to even hold his hand up to stop his fall. Just before he struck the ground, a hand caught his arm.

“Sit and rest.”

Benaiah was too weary to argue. He knelt on the nearest patch of grass and slumped to his side. Whoever the man talking to him was, it was not an enemy or he would already be dead.

Benaiah panted a moment with his eyes closed. When he opened them after regaining his breath, a man with a trimmed beard and cuts on his forehead stared back at him. Benaiah recognized the armor: it was his savior from the battle above.

A spear and shield were strapped to the man’s back. The flaming sword glowed quietly at his side, resembling a bed of coals in a campfire instead of the tongue of flame he had seen earlier.

The warrior cupped Benaiah’s face between his hands and spoke something like an oath. It was in a tongue Benaiah was not familiar with, and he was familiar with many tongues.

Benaiah felt burning pain in his head for a moment. His muscles twitched with new power and energy. The weariness that had overcome him slipped away. He still saw the claw wounds on his arm, but they didn’t seem to affect him; they ached just enough to remind him that they were there. His heart beat stronger. He took a deep breath of moist air and held it a moment.

The warrior released Benaiah’s head and stood up.

“It will be enough for your task, in Yahweh’s great mercy. Get up.”

Benaiah had recovered enough to be once more confused as to what was happening. He let the man pull him to his feet and tried to study his face as he adjusted his equipment. Dark hair, dark eyes, short beard trimmed like other warriors. But he was
immense,
with massive arms and a cloak that looked as heavy as a talent of gold. He had deep lines on his face, gutted and gnarled from years of combat. His stare was fierce. Benaiah had rarely met a man whose gaze he could not hold.

Benaiah became frustrated with himself. Why was he not asking who the man was, and how he had appeared so suddenly, and who had been the other warrior back up the hill? But either the cold or his own fear was holding his tongue.

The wind started up again, whipping drizzle into a swirling pattern that made both men lower their eyes into their cloaks. Benaiah dreaded having to cover his damaged arm with the thick wool, since the wound was still open and raw, but he felt the man’s gaze spurring him on. Holding his breath, he wrapped it up once more, winced, then gripped the shaft of his spear. It still hurt, but he sensed that his strength would last the night. The man’s touch had affected him greatly. Somehow.

The warrior gestured toward the village. They set off, moving at a slow trot on the wet ground. The air was still bitterly cold and breathing was hard. Benaiah evaluated his condition and considered whether the shortness in his breathing was caused by the cold or by a broken rib. Likely a rib, he decided, because he could not inhale all the way without it stabbing him.

They followed the creek through the forest as it twisted in and out of wet undergrowth. Moonlight was patchy at best, but the warrior didn’t seem to need it to find his way. Benaiah watched the shadows around him as much as he watched his footing, wondering whether the dark figure would reappear. Not even able to raise a
blade, he thought with disgust. The battle with the lion had drained him, but that was no excuse for his helplessness.

“He has been my adversary since the dawn of all things. We will see him again,” the man whispered, just loud enough to be heard over their footsteps.

Benaiah was about to ask how the man had heard his thoughts when the warrior caught his arm in a sudden movement. They crouched together and took cover behind a boulder.

They listened quietly for a moment. The rain had become a light drizzle, sprinkling on their armor and weapons. Through the trees Benaiah could make out campfires from the village; they were close enough that, were it not so late, he could have heard the noise of families cooking and talking. Then he saw what the stranger had spotted.

Lining the edge of the clearing where the town was built, silhouetted against the fires, were soldiers. Benaiah could see their heavy armor. He guessed they must be raiders who had snuck into the valley looking for supplies. But raiders from where?

The stranger pulled Benaiah’s head closer and whispered, “They are Amalekites, the enemies of Yahweh’s people, and you will kill them.”

Benaiah’s arms tensed as he held his weapons. Amalekites. The hated nomads from the south who had plagued his people for generations — the people who had destroyed his life. Anger surfaced, overpowering the pain and the weariness. He did not fight it and began to think of the pleasure of slaughtering them.

“Look at your feet.”

Benaiah peered at the dark forest floor. He saw a log nearby, along with some brush and a few rocks. “Look closer.”

Benaiah leaned down, straining his eyes at the log. He saw a small foot with a sandal on one end. He winced.

The body of the boy killed by the lion.

He was grateful that it was too dark to make out many details, but it looked as though the body was mostly intact. The lion had killed him, then left him behind without eating him. As if it had killed him for no purpose, not even for food, but only to bring death and sorrow in troubled times.

The sight of the small corpse, his memory of the grief on the faces of the parents, blood on the stones of his own home, a burial he had missed, they all came to him and made him shake. He felt it coming again, the urge to vomit, to hate, to scream in agony, and run, and kill, and rush into the forest.

The hand squeezed his shoulder again, the stranger pulling him close. His embrace was firm, brotherly, and Benaiah’s heart swelled with sorrow.

“I …,” Benaiah heard himself whisper.

The warrior hugged him tighter. His voice was soft, compassionate. “I know what you suffer. It was planned before your birth.”

Benaiah recoiled. He fought to keep his voice quiet.
“Planned?
By who? You were there?”

“I have stood in the presence of Yahweh, who knows and moves all things. I have protected you all of your life.”

“Who was supposed to protect my family?”

“They are in his embrace.”

“What about
my
embrace? Who are you?”

The warrior ignored him and unwrapped part of his bulky clothing and handed the bundle to Benaiah, who reached out with trembling hands and took it. It was a burial shroud, embroidered with a pattern of such exquisite detail that Benaiah momentarily forgot his agony and was astounded by it even in the blackness.

The warrior pointed at the boy. “Return him to his father for burial once you have defeated your enemies.” The stranger looked directly at Benaiah, his eyes fierce. “Power will come to you now to
help you accomplish this task. But your heart is twisted with vengeance and hate, and the power will leave you. One will escape.”

“I won’t let one escape.”

“It has been decided already. The power will leave you.” “The power?”

“You have heard it called by another name.”

Benaiah searched the man’s eyes, but there was nothing to be revealed there. The power? He thought quickly. “The covering.”

The man nodded. “Do not flee the covering, Benaiah. It is there for you always.”