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