Eliphaz didn’t know for how long the men carried him. His body swayed to and fro as they turned along their path. Were they trying to disorient him? If so, it was a wasted effort. Eliphaz struggled to keep his wits about him, but in the dark of the blindfold, he quickly succumbed to sleep.
He awoke with a jolt as his face hit soft ground. He felt the cloth slip from his eyes, the binds around his ankles loosen. His arms remained tied behind his back.
He opened his eyes. For some reason, he’d expected some form of brightness. There was no brightness at all. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and slowly a scene emerged.
A man sat before him, one knee raised, an arm resting lazily at the limb’s crook. His chest was bare, the pale skin covered in gash-like tattoos that wrapped around his arms. He was young—perhaps only some years older than Eliphaz—his form wiry and lean, his face smooth and youthful, dark hair sheared tightly above sharp ears. There was something feline in his poise, the way his body rested both relaxed and tense, as if it would spring into action at any moment.
Dark eyes pierced through Eliphaz as the man cocked his head—curious, slender nose raised in an arrogant expression. The sockets were painted with shadow, the whites of his eyes burned like stars in the night sky. Beneath dark, ruffled hair, a diadem rested at the forehead. The metal gleamed brilliantly, white forms dancing across its pitch-black surface.
“So, you’re the one,” he began. His voice sang with a foreign lilt. “When my men informed me that an unknown agent was killing Amun’s soldiers by the Arantu, I didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not this—no, this is most fascinating.”
Eliphaz sat up and scanned his surroundings warily. “Where are the others?”
“Watching from a respectful distance. Listening. Waiting for my command. Just because you can’t see my men, don’t fool yourself. You can’t run.”
Eliphaz peered between the dense tree trunks. Perhaps the night played tricks on his mind, but he swore he could see them. The forms of men, gangly limbs clutching at knives the length of his forearm. Reaching into his godshard, his awareness swept out around him.
At least twenty men surrounded him, standing on the balls of their feet, legs shaking with anticipation. Prepared to attack.
He glowered at his adversary. “I see them. Don’t underestimate me.”
“Oh-oh, still have some fight in you, do you?” He laughed through his nose, releasing a cold snort. “How unlike how my men found you. But you misunderstand me—I believe we share some common purpose here. Tell me, what is your name, boy?”
“I am not a boy.” Eliphaz said, not breaking his gaze. “And I won’t tell you anything until you explain yourself.”
For the briefest of moments, a shock of energy shot through the man. Hidden in shadow, his face twisted with rage and his whole body tensed and quivered. Eliphaz believed his life was over. He’d pushed his captor too far, the man would kill him right then and there. But then the moment passed. The man closed his eyes, his face dissolved into empty blackness. He breathed in, and out. Slowly.
Finally he spoke. “Very well,” he said, “I am Arnuwanda, first of my name, crown prince and First Inheritor to the Kingdom of Hattusa. Outside the court of the Sun I am called Arnu. I’ve come with my men to wage war against the Kingdom of the Black Earth, to expand the empire and bring glory to my King.” He opened his eyes, and the whites glared out into the night. “I repeat myself—who are you?”
Eliphaz’s tongue caught in his throat at the revelation. He forced himself to swallow his fear. Hittites. He’d never seen one before—of course—but he knew the stories. The warrior-hordes from the north. Plunderers and barbarians, ravaging through city-states, leaving behind only death and smoldering ashes. The Egyptians feared them, feared their burgeoning power, the slow advance of their territory as their armies encroached the vassal states of Amurru and Canaan.
Eliphaz had no loyalty to Egypt or the Pharaoh’s rule—but the Hittites were far worse, or so it was said. They had no faith in the gods, new or old. No respect for the order of things, for the natural harmony of the world. In Hittite cities, wanton lawlessness raged. Blood flowed freely, and life regressed into brutish savagery. Or at least—so it was said.
He looked at the prince, gulped down the saliva that had collected in his mouth, and spoke.
“Eliphaz, first of my name. Son of Esau, of Ishak, of the forefather; Abraham.”
“Fascinating,” the prince—the man who was called Arnu—said. From the ground, he reached for something hidden in the bed of grass. A familiar weapon revealed itself. A two-edged sword, sturdy at the base before tapering sleekly into its deadly point. Bronze flashed in Eliphaz’s eyes.
The Sword of Lamech.
Arnu held the Sword to his face, close enough to nick the skin of his cheek. He tested its sharpness, pushing a callused thumb against the edge, coaxing the sword to cut.
“Your sword is most peculiar,” Arnu said. “The construction is veritably ancient, with regards to the technique of its forging—and yet, the blade—I’ve never seen something quite like it. It is as sharp as the day it was born, yet shows no sign of ever being whetted. Tell me, Eliphaz, wherever did you find such a weapon?”
The man’s keen eye, the touch of hungered curiosity in his voice, compelled Eliphaz to speak. Something within him stirred, some truth he’d always known but only now could piece together, as the words fell from his lips.
“The men of my tribe have a certain custom. When the threat of violence arises, whenever weapons are drawn, the Song of the Sword is invoked. Muttered under one’s breath or shouted boastfully, more or less are these the words to that ancient poem.”
Eliphaz took a deep breath, and he recited the Song. He heard the words echo inside his head, resounding with every voice he’d heard recite the words. Eliezer, and his men. Jakob, in distaste. Ishak, in his visions.
“Oh, wives of Lamech, give ear to my speech,
for I have slain a man to my wounding,
and a lad to my hurt.
If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold,
Truly Lamech seventy-and-sevenfold.”
Arnu leaned forward in rapt attention. “And who was this fearsome Lamech?” he asked. “I assume it is his sword that you now carry.”
Eliphaz nodded as he dipped into his memory. “In the before times, when the world was young and the flood had yet to cleanse the earth. Ancient beings still wandered, humans who tenuously held the flower of immortality, old enough to remember the first Man and Woman, to remember the eternal garden and its loss.
“In these times, Lamech lived. Not an immortal, but a man, descended from cursed blood. For his forefather was Cain, who had been cast out for spilling the blood of his brother, and punished by God to wander the earth. Marked by the Creator’s curse, none could touch him, kill him, comfort him. This was his punishment.
“Lamech saw his ancestor wander the wastelands of the world. He saw Cain’s loneliness, but also his strength, the power hidden beneath the rags of his clothes. For Cain was the last living son of the first Man, and his closeness to that divine act of creation had granted him a rare Immortality perk, thought only possessed by the gods themselves. Lamech saw this, and he coveted it for himself. Not that killing Cain would grant him immortality, but Cain’s unparalleled strength drew him in. Levels, stats, experience slowly accrued over hundreds of years. Where Lamech to fell him, the experience points alone would make him powerful beyond compare.
“But there remained the problem of God’s curse. For He had said, ‘for any man who kills Cain, he will suffer vengeance seven times over.’ Any damage inflicted to Cain, would reflect back on his attacker, sevenfold. Were Lamech to attempt the deed, he would be dead before he’d completed his first blow, let alone getting past Cain’s Immortality. So Lamech devised a plan.
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“With his son, he forged a weapon that could circumvent the mark of Cain. He infused the blade with his own blood—the blood he shared with his cursed forefather. When struck with Lamech’s Sword, God’s protection failed, believing the blow came from Cain himself. Further, Lamech already shared some remnant of Cain’s curse, and using forbidden knowledge, he refined it, set its properties in metal. Now, were the bearer and his victim to share some filial bond, the protection of Cain’s mark would activate. But instead of inflicting retaliatory damage on the attacker, the sword reflected it back, again and again and again. No longer did the damage increase sevenfold, but through the Sword of Lamech, seventy-and-sevenfold.”
Arnu smiled, casting a grim glance at the sword in his grip. “What a ghastly story—and a devilish trick. I take it Lamech succeeded in the end, in killing his forefather?”
“He did,” Eliphaz confirmed. “But as is often the case, the victory was a double edged sword. The accounts obscure, but after Lamech killed Cain, his family turned on him. Everyone wanted a piece of power for themselves. His bloodline tore itself apart, descending into violence and oblivion. Only the blade itself remembers that tale.”
The prince regarded the sword one last time, before placing it carefully in the grass. His mood turned pensive, his expression having lost some of its stern fervor over the course of Eliphaz’s story.
“I’ve heard such stories before,” he said, “Of immortal heroes and monsters, floods and paradisal gardens. Father made sure I was educated in the ways of the gods, had priests lecture on the intricacies of the System, so-called prophets share their visions of the beyond, soothsayers read the oil drops in our tea. He keeps a library of dusty texts and journals from the empire and beyond. Are you of the Shasu, Eliphaz, the nomad-tribes of the far southern reaches?”
Eliphaz shook his head. “If that was ever the case, my family left long ago. We seek our own truth, seek the God of all gods, Elohim. My grandfather—our Patriarch—would disapprove of me telling the story of Lamech. It speaks not of Elohim, he would say, but appeals only to our most base instinct: the pursuit of power through blood.”
“And yet you seem to relish in its telling.” Arnu smiled, lips curling above sharp teeth. “You remain an enigma in spite of yourself. You claim descendancy from the moon wanderers, and yet my seers tell me you carry blessings of the Mother, the Queen of Heavens herself. You tread a path of contradictions, Eliphaz.”
“And?” Eliphaz’s skin bristled. “Fate is the business of gods. I take whatever I can get—the will of the gods be damned.”
“An apt view on the nature of things,” the prince commented. “And what is it you want?”
Eliphaz sighed, looking behind into the darkness. He imagined the river, the marshes he’d traversed. And the city of Qadesh, still lit by torches in the night.
“I need to go back,” he said, “to the city. I left something—someone behind. I want to make sure they’re alright.”
“How fortuitous.” Arnu’s dry voice cut through his musing. “As soon as the Pharaoh’s men tire of their searching, we move towards the city. Their reinforcements were blocked from the West, and we must strike while the advantage remains.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I was content to bide my time in the darkness, but then you appeared, Eliphaz. Your appearance is both a blessing and a curse. You threatened to reveal our location to the enemy. You sent them into a frenzied panic—that can be utilized. And now you present yourself, and your abilities—if I understand them correctly—will prove very useful for our cause. Yes, very useful indeed…”
He felt the Hittite prince’s machinations close in on him, speaking of him as if he were a mere object. Eliphaz hated the feeling. He thought of his mother, pressing the Sword into his trembling hands. Whatever Arnu was planning, he wanted no part in it.
“I am no tool,” he said, “don’t think you can control me so easily. I warned you not to underestimate me.”
Arnu froze. Something gleamed in his eye, a spark of excitement. “Oh, you challenge me? How refreshing.” His stance shifted imperceptibly, limbs tensed with wound-up energy. He lowered his head, eyes focused on Eliphaz. “Do your worst.”
Eliphaz, his hands still tied behind his back, didn’t waste another moment. A thorn cut through his bindings, and he brought the green remnant around, transforming it into a staff. Through his godshard he sensed at least ten men encroach him from behind. Their heavy footsteps resounded in the earth, suggesting heavy armor and weaponry. Their weapons swung down—too short to be swords, but longer than any knife he’d seen—but Eliphaz knew they were coming. Vines wrapped around their black-armored bodies and limbs, catching them mid-strike. They remained there, frozen in air, totally immobilized. Their weapons encircled Eliphaz’s head like a halo of blades.
Arnu still sat before him, not having moved an inch as his men attacked. He flashed a predatory smile, and exploded into action. He moved faster than anyone Eliphaz had ever seen, crossing the distance between them almost instantly.
Suddenly, Arnu was before him. With his right arm he clutched a dark sword, holding it along his forearm like a knife. He swung upwards, arm and sword unfolding like a praying mantis’ claw, aiming for Eliphaz’s throat.
Eliphaz stepped back in panic, blood pounding at his temples. He raised his staff to deflect the attack, summoning further vines to slow the prince. He felt the specter of death in the approaching blade. Something about it stirred his insides, made his godshard and mana reserves shiver. He fortified his magic as much as he could.
Staff of t̸͚͙͆̕͠h̵̫͈̰̋̇̕ỏ̴͈̪͊͐ŗ̵̬̈́̈n̶͓̏̊͊s̶̜͒!̷̘̰͈̇͒̽
S̷ז̷̴a̷.. f̷f̵ ̷0̴f̴ ̸t̵h̴ o̵0̶r̵ח̷s̴!̶
ל̶̸̛̻̦̾ז̴̰̏a̶̼͋.̷͚͘.̷̺͠.̷̠̿f̸͈͗ק̴̲̌ ̷̦͋ט̵̴̯̪͋̅ק̴̜͆ ̶̰͠t̴͉͑ ̸̹̊,̴̥͌,̴̩̈,̴̜͑ז̶̵̴̩͙͈̿̚͠h̴̛͜ט̵̷̯͎͗̔ȓ̸͇ ̷̪̓ǹ̷̟s̸̫̊ ̵͇͑ ̸̙̾.̷͚̃.̴͐ͅ!̶͒͜
The blade cut through the thorned wood without resistance. A shock of energy traveled through Eliphaz’s veins, and he felt his mana go dull for a moment. The vines around Arnu withered away, slipping from his arms and falling soundlessly to the ground.
The cold blade pushed against his neck. It forced Eliphaz to raise his chin, lest it would slice through his skin and slit his throat. Eliphaz stood on his toes, head raised beneath the black metal of the sword. He looked down the weapon, an extension of Arnu’s braceleted and tattoo-marked arm, into the shadow-painted eyes of the prince who crouched beneath him. Arnu smiled, as if relishing the fact that he held Eliphaz’s life in his hands. A false movement, a jerk of the hand, and the blade would cut. Yet the prince held his arm steady, perfectly still.
“Starsteel,” Arnu explained, looking into Eliphaz’s fearful eyes. “Stronger than bronze, than any other metal. Forged from fallen stars, it resists the magic of the gods, disrupts the workings of mana.” Arm still extended, he pressed the flat of the blade against Eliphaz’s skin, teased the edge with the promise of blood. “Remember the sensation of the Starsteel Blade against your throat. Remind yourself of it often, Eliphaz. You warned me not to underestimate you, but did it ever occur to you that the same might apply to you? Do you understand?”
“I…understand,” Eliphaz whispered. The blade pressed against his throat, and he didn’t dare swallow or move his head. He feared his legs would give in, that he’d fall upon the blade and die of his own weakness.
“Good.” Arnu retracted the blade, returning it to its sheath at his back.
Eliphaz fell to his knees, gasping for air. His hand grasped his neck, feeling the tender flesh for cuts or blood. The skin was intact, as smooth as ever.
“Release my men, they will not harm you.” Arnu scoffed. “Not that they ever could.”
He obeyed, and heard the men behind him fall to the ground with angry grunts. He ignored their groans, and looked up at Arnu. His Strength and Agility were unparalleled, Eliphaz realized. If only Narina was here, she could’ve revealed his secrets, warned Eliphaz of the danger he faced. He remembered Narina, carried off by the priests of the Kotharat.
If Narina was still alive…
“You said you could get me into the city,” he said. “How? There are guards everywhere. There’s no way you can slip past them all.”
For the first time, Arnu laughed. The hyena-like cry echoed, and its brazen confidence brought figures out of the darkness. More and more surrounded the clearing, far greater than the twenty Eliphaz had spied initially. A hundred…maybe two-hundred men, all clad in black-painted armor, carrying shields and knives, bows and arrows.
“Who said anything about slipping past?” Arnu’s eyes glowed with fervor. “Pharaoh’s army of chariots and foot soldiers is occupied, ambushed between here and Byblos. Qadesh—despite all its defenses—lies ripe for the taking. The Pharaoh’s advisors won’t suspect it. It’s a risk-filled, dangerous endeavor. But with you”—His arm extended, an open palm offered towards Eliphaz—“the odds shift in our favor.”
Eliphaz looked at the inviting hand. With Arnu’s help, he could gain entrance to the city, have the chance to find Narina. In the process, he would aid the Hittites in the sacking of Qadesh, in spreading their violence and terror. Perhaps a younger Eliphaz would’ve been more sensitive to the choice presented to him. At present, Eliphaz had spent enough time fighting for his own life, facing enough blind corruption at the hands of the empire’s forces that the consequences of his actions failed to move him. He saw his purpose and little else. He didn’t care whether Arnu burned the city to ashes or not.
He grasped the hand and pulled himself to his feet. “I can help you and your men scale the city walls. But once inside, you will let me go as soon as it is safe to do so.”
Arnu smiled, wiping spittle from his lips. His eyes were black orbs in the dark, the eyes of a wolfish predator. He gripped Eliphaz’s hand to his chest, before raising it into the air and turning to his men. The Hittites, painted in dirt and dyes, raised their weapons. No one shouted, but the silence of the forest was deafening in Eliphaz’s ears.
“Tonight,” Arnu hissed between glistening teeth, “Qadesh falls beneath the Starsteel Blade!”