Akshur
The army of Kan-Puram crossed the Tiger River before sunrise, and swept into the Withered Hills beyond. They made their way up a wide valley, just as the Niphilim had a month before, and within an hour had reached the base of a long slope. Doran never even paused to catch his breath.
It was a strange army that climbed the hill that day. Every man, without exception, was wet to the top of his thighs, and muddy at least to his knees. But Doran didn’t suppose they needed to be clean or dry to win a battle. According to Ander, they outnumbered the enemy at least a hundred to one. Doran was surprised that the Niphilim women – so far as he could determine, there were no men among the soldiers waiting at the top of the slope - hadn’t already fled. They had no prospects for victory, and no hope of reinforcements. Fate was so clearly against them that day.
Then, as though they’d heard his thoughts, the Niphilim did just that. Without even drawing their swords, they turned and disappeared over the crest of the hill.
Doran was astonished. For a moment, he had no clear idea as to what he should do. He was in a state of blissful shock. Only sheer habit kept his feet moving at all, and even that threatened to stop at any moment.
Unfortunately, the men around him were not so easily staggered.
The moment the Niphilim women disappeared, the whole front portion of the column dashed after them. Better than a thousand men went racing up the slope, like dogs chasing a hare. Doran didn’t try to stop them. In fact, once his bewilderment had passed, he was filled with a joy that bordered on rapture. With luck, he imagined, they’d be able to overtake the Niphilim and drive them to their graves. And even if they failed at that, they’d still be among the first to see Akshur. It sent chills up his spine.
But all hopes of glory faded as Doran came over the crest of the hill and found the Niphilim, lined up and ready.
Beyond them, the buildings and gardens that had once been the town of Akshur waited. For a brief moment, Doran had a clear picture of thatched roofs, mud walls, and the bent and splintered posts that had once outlined goat-pens. There were no people visible amidst the little houses and shops, but he could imagine them. Young men with pitchforks and shepherd’s crooks, going to their work in the fields. Mothers with babies pressed to their bosoms. The old and frail sitting in their doorways, watching life do its magic. It was right there - just a few hundred strides across a field of sun-scorched grass. But Doran would never reach it. He, and the better part of his men, had raced into a trap.
Doran had seen a device like this once before, while on a mission to Ur with some of his brethren from the temple. The farmers that worked the lands south of Kan-Puram used a similar trap for hunting deer and antelope. Just over the top of the hill, where none of them could see it, the Niphilim had constructed a barrier. It consisted of nothing more than sharpened staves, driven into the earth at an angle designed to catch a man between his navel and upper thigh. Normally, this kind of fence would be erected along a path where herd animals were known to migrate. According to the farmers Doran had spoken with, getting the beasts to stampede into it was no more difficult than starting a few small fires – nothing that couldn’t be extinguished when the time came - and letting the smoke drift with the breeze. As the soldiers of Kan-Puram were learning, the same thing could be done to people, and with similar results. The worst part was, even those who saw the barrier in time, like Doran himself, weren’t able to stop. Their friends and comrades, still racing up the hill, blissfully unaware of the danger, shoved them onto the spikes.
There was only one gap in the barrier, right at the center, and that’s where the Niphilim were positioned. The few individuals lucky enough to avoid the spikes were quickly forced onto their swords. Doran saw that he’d be one of them, and began shouting and waving his arms wildly. It did no good. No one could hear him over the screams of the wounded and dying.
From Slaves of the <st1:country-region><st1:place>Shinar</st1:place></st1:country-region>
The Overlook Press 2007
© Justin Allen
