Justin Allen

“Look at them all,” the man next to him said, sit­ting up in the tall grass.

He was young, prob­a­bly no more than sev­en­teen or eigh­teen, but already sport­ing a thick beard. Ander was sorry he didn’t know the boy’s name.

“It almost looks like -” The boy grabbed his spear and scram­bled to his feet.

“What?” Ander squinted but could only see the torches.

“Noth­ing.” He shook his head. “I guess it’s nothing.”

For the next quarter-hour they stood together, watch­ing as the dots of fire marched up the val­ley. By that time, every man on the hill was awake. At least half were pray­ing fever­ishly, offer­ing up all man­ner of future sac­ri­fice. Ander kept an eye on them, unsure whether he should join in. He decided not to. Ander believed in gods, he just wasn’t sure what he had to say to them.

“I don’t feel well,” the boy at his side mut­tered. His hand was pressed to his chest. A sick look spread over his lips.

“Me nei­ther,” Ander con­fessed. He’d heard about bat­tle fright. The Niphilim told sto­ries about it to scare the younger sol­diers. Some sweated. Oth­ers got gas. Most felt like they had to uri­nate, though their blad­ders were empty. Ander just felt cold.

“My heart’s beat­ing so fast…” the boy gasped. “Can you hear it?”

Ander put a hand on his shoul­der. “You’re all right,” he whis­pered. “Just take a deep breath.”

The boy sucked in hard. “I don’t think I can do it,” he said. Ander looked at him, but didn’t say a word. “There are other cities. I could take my wife and -” His mouth fell open as the first rays of sun­light streamed over the east­ern mountains.

The val­ley was still cloaked in shad­ows, but no longer so dark that they couldn’t make out the approach­ing army. There were at least three thou­sand Niphilim and an untold num­ber of sav­ages. The Akshu­rites were out­num­bered sixty to one.

Ander glanced at the boy, half-expecting him to bolt.

“What are they?” the boy asked, ner­vously squeez­ing the shaft of his spear.

“Sav­ages,” Ander mut­tered. “Lillin. Beasts from west of the With­ered Hills.” Even from that dis­tance he could see their hairy bod­ies. The tufts of fur on their chests and bel­lies. The dense thick­ets that ran down their spines, dis­ap­pear­ing into the cracks between their but­tocks. “The Niphilim have been trap­ping them for months.”

Watch­ing the sav­ages fight their way up the hill, Ander couldn’t help think­ing of a boil­ing pot, the bub­bles grow­ing ever larger as they rise to the sur­face. “Be care­ful,” he said. “They’re strong. And the more human ones carry clubs.”

“More human?”

“You’ll see.”

The boy bit his lip. Ander was start­ing to like him. He was scared, but wasn’t let­ting his fear get the best of him. That’s just about all that could be said of anyone.

“Do you hear that?” the boy asked.

Ander lis­tened. “Drums,” he said. The rhythm was eerily sim­i­lar to a heart­beat. Not a nice sound. “They just keep adding wood to the fire.”

“What?”

“Noth­ing.”

“How many do you think there are?”

“Too many,” Ander said. “Far too many.”

The sav­ages howled as they stam­peded up the hill. They were close enough now for Ander to see the bony ridges over their eyes, and their hooked, claw-like fin­gers. Most were painfully thin. Prob­a­bly mal­nour­ished, Ander guessed. He glanced at his own arm. The bones and veins in the back of his hand stood out like those of a man twice his age. Ander frowned. A cou­ple more weeks in Akshur and he might have filled out.

Ander was still con­tem­plat­ing his arm when he noticed the boy inch­ing back­ward. “Stay in the line,” Ander said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoul­der and gen­tly push­ing him back into place. “It’s the safest place.”

The boy glared. He thought he was being called a cow­ard, Ander guessed. And try­ing so hard to prove he was a man.

“Keep the tip of your spear chest high,” Ander con­tin­ued, ignor­ing the look on the boy’s face. “No rea­son to aim for their necks.” As he talked, Ander thought of all the times he’d watched the Niphilim run­ning drills and spar­ing in the field at the base of the moun­tain. “Keep the shaft level. It’s strongest that way.”

“What’ll I do if they break through?” the boy asked. “What if they get past us and attack from behind?”

Ander pulled the hunt­ing knife from his belt and handed it to the boy. “Take this,” he said. “If they do get past us, throw away your spear.”

The boy nod­ded morosely. “Thanks,” he whispered.

The first sav­age was near­ing the top of the hill. She had long teats, hairy right to the edge of the nip­ple, and big pow­er­ful legs. How she’d man­aged to fight past the oth­ers, Ander couldn’t imag­ine. She was pant­ing, mouth open wide, and had a full set of sharp, yel­low teeth. The only part of her that didn’t strike fear into Ander was her eyes. Look­ing into them he saw only terror.

Ander winced as the rusty tines of a pitch­fork stabbed into her belly, just above her left hip.

The sav­age screamed.

Ander shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled his hat down tight. A lit­tle squirt of urine soaked into the front of his breeches.

The pot was about to boil over.

From Slaves of the Shinar

The Over­look Press 2007

© Justin Allen