The sun was still bearing down on the courtyard when Eliphaz left the palace. Securely fastened to the back of the court’s finest-bred Hurrian horse, he was gone in a clatter of hooves and a cloud of fine dust. Narina sat in front of him, facing to the side with her head resting peacefully in the crook of Eliphaz’s neck. Her condition had improved slightly over the course of the day, with some brief moments of near-lucidity in which her eyes had shot open, fixed at some invisible point in the distance. Occasionally, she even seemed to whisper under her breath, though Eliphaz (nor anyone else for that matter) could not decipher what she said.

He was relieved to finally be on his way. Trapped within the confines of the palace, Eliphaz had found himself shaking, unable to control the impatient energy that made his jaw quiver and knees rattle as if a cool breeze had swept through the room. When the royal physician returned to examine Narina, Eliphaz thrummed his fingers against the headboard, staring so intently at the gray-haired man that the doctor whispered his diagnosis to Mina rather than look at the stern-eyed boy who watched over the sick girl’s bedside.

Couldn’t they see, Eliphaz thought, how much precious time this rigmarole was wasting? He had little regard for the court of Shechem—who already once condemned Narina to die, letting her fall into the fiery hands of Molek’s worshippers. No doubt they would fail her again through either incompetence or carelessness. He was careful not to press Mina too hard on these matters, for he still relied on the Prince’s goodwill. Nonetheless, he was determined to make the journey to Qadesh himself. Whether due to distrust, or due to a promise made beneath an ocean of stars, his mind was set.

And then of course there was the matter of fate. Questions surfaced at the back of Eliphaz’s mind as he rode along the ancient path, questions he had easily pushed aside before, but not anymore.

Narina had killed the Nephilim. That fact was beyond doubt. She had harnessed the cursed blood magic of the Sword of Lamech, and turned it against the monster. And how had she known that the desperate ploy would work?

She hadn’t, Eliphaz realized. It was an act of pure faith, faith in the gods, faith in that fate had more in store for her than wanton death. For days Eliphaz ignored Narina’s fervorous words, pushed aside her insistence that their meeting meant something more. Instead he gave her excuses, it’s just coincidence, he had said. But was she right?

Unlike Narina, Eliphaz found no comfort in the concept of fate. Was he really so simple, that Ishtar could lead him down whichever path she wished? The thought terrified him, to imagine he had no will of his own. The feeling was similar to when a future of enslavement loomed before his eyes as he traveled through the desert, dazed, bleeding and parched and strung to the back of a camel.

Was Ishtar leading him right now? Did she wish him to travel to Qadesh?

No, Eliphaz thought, steeling his will as he tugged on the reins of the horse. Narina’s heart beat tenderly against his chest. The sound echoed in his mind, louder than the wind, than the trudging thuds of the beast traveling towards the horizon.

My will is my own. I would take this journey whether the sky turned black or fire rained from the heavens. As long as there is still a chance Narina’s life can be saved, this will be my path.

Yet, Eliphaz didn’t think—that this was precisely why Ishtar had chosen him.

—

As nighttime fell, Eliphaz reached the banks of the Arantu river. It appeared precisely as Mina had described it, the river bend emerging from the trees of the marshland, kissing Eliphaz’s path with its green shores as the road split in two. The moon waned in the sky but still shone with resolve, illuminating the dark rounded shapes of the mountains which delineated the Beqa valley. The air smelled of dew—damp and warm and vibrating with the hum of water and insects. The idyllic calm of the place blew through Eliphaz like a breeze, easing his thoughts as his horse snorted to a halt.

He set upon making a simple camp, choosing a place where the grass was lush and soft. Gently he placed Narina down, resting her head against the leather of his pack. He found that the vines he summoned would quickly dry under his will, and in little time a small fire sprung up beside him. He ate in silence, staring at the flames, forcing the dried bread down his throat. For the following day, he needed his strength.

After finishing his meal, Eliphaz took care of Narina. By the orders of the palace physician she was not to eat, the risk of choking or otherwise restricting the windpipe was too great. Instead Eliphaz went to work, dipping a rag into his water pot and squeezing the drops between the girl’s lips. The task was slow—painfully so—but the motions rote, and Eliphaz had little else to do or think about. He looked down at her face, eyes closed, brows alarmingly furrowed, strands of dark hair slick against her fevered head. Yet she still breathed. Slow, measured breaths, in time with the sounds of the valley.

“I don’t suppose you can hear me,” Eliphaz said, resting his hands for a moment. “But perhaps you can. Or perhaps I just wish you could. There’s so much I never had a chance to say.”

He looked over at the fire, the embers blinking in and out. A thin trail of smoke rose into the sky, where it mingled with the great cloud of celestial dust that stretched across the heavens.

“I’m sorry for lying to you earlier. For not being honest about who I was. I told you I was of the tribe of Abraham, but that isn’t true—not anymore. I can never again return to that place.”

Narina was little more than a shadow in the enveloping night. Eliphaz realized he didn’t care whether she could hear or not, or if he spoke simply into the void of his own heart. For a week he had bundled his feelings, pushed them away as he faced the wrath of Molek, the unholy terror of the Nephilim. Now, with Narina’s life slipping away before his eyes, the stress proved too much to bear. Tears welled in his eyes as he helplessly unburdened the shame of his soul.

“My parents gave me no other choice. Mother put the blade in my hand, said I had to kill him. That the fate of the family rested in my hands.” Eliphaz tried to laugh, but his throat choked up. “Only seven days have passed, and I can already see how stupid I was. That I thought I could trust them. That I actually believed they had anything other than selfish motives.

“The worst part of all is that I nearly did it. Held a sword to my uncle’s neck, didn’t hesitate until it was nearly too late. One fell swoop and his head would’ve rolled across the sands. I was so close before I realized the rift I would cause, that the blood I spilled in the desert would not be forgotten. That I would have to live with the consequences.”

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Along the shore of the river, the trees bent downwards, grasping towards the water. They whispered softly, indifferent to the world of pain and sorrow.

“Maybe I should’ve done it. Murdered my uncle while I had the chance.” Eliphaz let his shoulders fall in a tired shrug. “I thought killing was a choice—now I know better. If Jakob was dead at least I could look my father in the eye without fearing he’d call me a coward. Now my whole tribe hates me, either for what I failed to do or because I couldn’t carry it through.”

He laid down, close enough that he could hear the soft exhale of her breath, see the wisps of her black hair despite the darkness.

“I don’t have a family anymore. Now all I have is a crazed goddess who thinks she can manipulate fate—and you, Narina.”

He took her hand. It was cold to the touch.

“Please don’t let me lose that too.”

—

Eliphaz awoke not to the soft light of the sun rising above the hills, but a full-fledged kick to the gut that left his lungs wheezing.

“Oh look, the filth is awake,” a voice said.

Eliphaz curled like an insect. His mind reeled as he gasped for air, coughing spittle onto the ground. For a moment his vision seared pure white, and only feeling the cool grass beneath his fingers made him recollect where he was. Pushing off the ground, he turned his head—only to find himself facing the bladed end of a spear, inches from his face. The metal gleamed red from the dawn, and across its flat side he looked into a reflection of his own eye, pupil wide and black, its folds twisted in pain and alarm.

Eliphaz looked further up along the shaft of the spear. Its wielder was a man of middle-age, stocky and well-built with skin that was smooth and dark—a golden bracer adorned his right forearm. Upon his head he wore a scarf that flared like a lion’s mane. His chest shimmered with a hundred scales of honeyed bronze.

A soldier, Eliphaz realized. In dress and demeanor the man resembled Besset, the late and unlucky Egyptian commander. Yet his expression was blank and dull. He showed neither contempt or disgust towards Eliphaz, but barely seemed to regard him at all as he pointed the spear in Eliphaz’s face.

The man’s neck strained as he twisted and called back. “Didn’t you hear me? I said the habiru is awake!”

Looking past the soldier, Eliphaz could see two more men within the camp. Narina (who was no longer lying beside Eliphaz) had been dragged across the ground and was now being inspected by a second soldier. He cupped her cheeks and turned her head from side to side—for what discernable reason Eliphaz couldn’t tell. The third had found Eliphaz’s pack, and currently rooted through its contents.

“What is the meaning of this?” Eliphaz cried. He shuffled onto his hands and knees, trying to get up, but was subsequently kicked again in the ribs.

He fell to the ground and soon found the hard edge of a sandal pushing against his sternum. The spear point wavered in front of his right eye, so close Eliphaz couldn’t help but blink.

“I should ask you the same thing, hm?” the soldier said. Anger rose in his voice. “My patrol comes along the road to Qadesh, and what do we find? A habiru in possession of a purebred horse and a girl who is dead? Explain yourself!”

Eliphaz gasped as the man weighed on his chest. He coughed out his words. “She’s not dead. She’s…sick.”

“Sick, eh?” the man said, not waiting for Eliphaz to finish. “Let me guess, that sheep-god of yours helped you cook up some vile love-potion? Thought you deserved better than those filthy tribe-girls. Thought you could steal a bride whose blood didn’t stink of shit. Bet you figured you’d steal the horse too while you were already on your little spree.”

“No, no, no!” Eliphaz panted, but the men didn’t care. They laughed amongst themselves, unbothered as their leader pushed Eliphaz’s face into the dirt.

He’d had enough. Eliphaz snarled as he summoned his strength and pushed the leg off his chest. As the soldier yelped in surprise, Eliphaz swung back, away from the purview of the spear, crouching at the edge of the riverbank.

“Listen to me,” he growled, still staring down the tip of spear. The others too had drawn their weapons, swords flashing in the distance.

“I’m on a mission under the blessing of Prince Hemor’s court of Shechem,” Eliphaz continued. “The girl is sick and I’m to deliver her to Qadesh by nightfall. Is that clear?”

Eliphaz noticed that the soldier’s demeanor had changed. He’d underestimated Eliphaz’s Strength, thought him weak. Now, he knew better, and he clutched his weapon with white knuckles and looked down towards the river with narrowed eyes. The corner of his lip curled down into an ugly sneer.

“Prove it,” he said.

Slowly, methodically, Eliphaz raised his hands and reached into the folds of his robe. His hand emerged with a folded sheet of papyrus, marked with red wax. “The details of my mission, marked with the seal of the Court,” he explained.

For a second the soldier simply stared at him. His brow turned upwards in both confusion and anger, as if the man were outraged but didn’t know why. Finally, he lowered his spear and snatched the letter from Eliphaz’s hand. He tore open the seal and inspected the writing, squinting at the glyphs within.

After an interminable amount of time he lowered the letter from his face and sighed. “Very well,” he muttered.

He turned toward his companions. The one on the right, clearly bored with the unexciting turn of events, had returned to digging through Eliphaz’s belongings. He now dumped the contents onto the ground. Little pots of preserves and foodstuffs, clothes and blankets, superstitious trinkets and wards tumbled out. The Sword of Lamech bounced silently in the grass, partially unsheathed from its sack.

And then something else fell too. A purse, so laden its contents pressed the leather taut. It spilled across the grass, leaving a streak of silver. Fine minted shekels, slender and clear as the full moon, shining like the scales of a river trout.

The Kotharat’s payment. The price for Narina’s life.

The soldier looked upon the silver spectacle and his face twisted, as if the act of thinking was inherently painful. His fist closed around the seal of Shechem, and the papyrus crumbled. Bright, white-hot light suddenly flashed between his closed fingers, coursing across his hand for several seconds. When he opened his hand again nothing but black dust remained, and he let it float from his palm into the river beneath him. He raised his spear again at Eliphaz.

“You—you can’t do this,” Eliphaz whispered.

The soldier ignored his words. “I have found you guilty of stealing from the golden empire,” he said. “By the power vested in me by our lord Amun-Ra, I will confiscate these goods for their safekeeping.”

“How dare you!” Eliphaz shouted. “You liar, you thief!”

“Silence! Be careful what you say, child,” the soldier snarled. “It’s your word against mine, and why should anyone trust you? Leave now, and I might consider sparing your life.”

He lunged forward with his spear. Eliphaz stumbled back, nearly slipping on the slick rocks of the river. Drops of moisture pricked his feet. Blood rushed in his ears.

Eliphaz’s senses heightened, time slowed. The man tightened his grip on his spear. His fingers were fat and coarse. A golden ring adorned the index digit: a ram-headed sphinx beneath a solar disc.

Besset’s words echoed in his mind.

“In Retenu, they extort, they steal, they kill. And as long as they bear the mark of the Pharaoh, their crimes go unpunished.”

“You scourge,” Eliphaz said. His skin bristled, the words dripped with hatred. “Run before I cut you down.”

The men just laughed. The boy was unarmed, defenseless—pushed up against the rocks of the river. They raised their weapons.

And the spear hummed with energy, gathering white-hot light across the edge of its blade.