terror had fled here. Not so long ago Noah, in his bid for allies, had spoken with ancient Chemosh. Chemosh like Methuselah had been forced by his children to say no.
With haunted eyes, Atalanta whispered about a terrible catastrophe . It was already past midnight; the family listening intently.
Of course they knew the local geography. Clans in stone-walled compounds dotted the sloping plain between the Northern Mountains and the Southern Sacar River. East through the Forest Road stood the city of Arad, while to the west the plain disappeared into the Mahalalel Marshes. They knew, too, the rumors of Ymir and his attack along river strongholds.
What they didn ’t know—but what Atalanta now told—was that the Nephilim had left his barges. In several swift night marches, Ymir had stolen past the southernmost compounds and thrust deeper onto the plain. Then several days ago, he had appeared one dreadful morning before Clan Chemosh Holding. At the crowing of cocks, the folk of Clan Chemosh had awoken to the horror of Ymir and his band camped before the main gate.
The people of Clan Chemosh, as everyone knew, were shrewd farmers and traders, having long ago given up the taxing arts of war. Yet the elders, the oldest sons of Chemosh, had held council and devised a cunning scheme. They had strung long-unused bows and shrugged themselves into dusty armor, and then they lined the stout stone walls in a show of martial array. The gate creaked and out shuffled Patriarch Chemosh, an ancient well over eight hundred years old. The brass gate clanged shut behind him and the bar dropped into place. Alone, carrying a wooden platter in his trembling hands, the robed ancient had approached the giant a furlong off.
Ymir towered over his Slayers . He stood in gleaming links, with a terrible demon mask and an axe in his hands, whose sharpened head could have been a ship’s anchor. As Patriarch Chemosh approached, Ymir stretched out his arm, pointing with his long-handled axe.
A burly Slayer, naked but for a bear cloak and a wolf-skin twisted around his groin, detached from the others and swaggered to intercept the old man . On the warrior’s tattooed chest thumped a silver amulet, stamped in the image of a wicked woman with horns. It was a spirit totem, said to impart courage and contempt of death. The Slayer, the big man, carried a spear, was bearded and had intense eyes.
“ Halt, old man,” the Slayer said.
“ I bring salt and bread,” old Chemosh said. The stone cup of salt rattled against the shaking platter and the round loaf of bread seemed alive the way it jumped and skittered. “Please, let me approach Ymir and offer them in peace.”
“ I am the Spellbinder, he who speaks for Ymir. And Ymir says—” the Slayer touched the platter with his spear-tip, and with a twist knocked it from the old man’s grasp.
“ Mercy, great Ymir!” Chemosh cried. The old dotard dropped to his knees, fumbling with the fallen cup of salt, putting it back onto the wooden plate, then letting go of it and stretching out his arms toward Ymir in a silent plea.
The Spellbinder stood above the patriarch, his spear held aloft for a death stroke . Yet the warrior spoke. In a loud voice, he shouted to those watching on the walls. “Come, let us reason together, you and I. You wish for dignity. We obey the will of Ymir. All that is left today is the manner of your death. Ymir urges you to a proud passing, noble and valorous. File out from your stone mound. Draw your swords. Then fight us, men of Chemosh! Prove to us your boldness. Gain renown and Ymir’s respect. Show yourselves warriors and honor us with hard-fought battle. Die bravely so that as heroes you may enter the shadowy halls of Death.”
Fright filled those on the walls . Atalanta, who stood among them, saw the men grow pale and their fingers slacken with terror.
Outside of the wall, ancient Chemosh groaned before the powerful warrior.
“Is there no dignity left in Chemosh?” the
With haunted eyes, Atalanta whispered about a terrible catastrophe . It was already past midnight; the family listening intently.
Of course they knew the local geography. Clans in stone-walled compounds dotted the sloping plain between the Northern Mountains and the Southern Sacar River. East through the Forest Road stood the city of Arad, while to the west the plain disappeared into the Mahalalel Marshes. They knew, too, the rumors of Ymir and his attack along river strongholds.
What they didn ’t know—but what Atalanta now told—was that the Nephilim had left his barges. In several swift night marches, Ymir had stolen past the southernmost compounds and thrust deeper onto the plain. Then several days ago, he had appeared one dreadful morning before Clan Chemosh Holding. At the crowing of cocks, the folk of Clan Chemosh had awoken to the horror of Ymir and his band camped before the main gate.
The people of Clan Chemosh, as everyone knew, were shrewd farmers and traders, having long ago given up the taxing arts of war. Yet the elders, the oldest sons of Chemosh, had held council and devised a cunning scheme. They had strung long-unused bows and shrugged themselves into dusty armor, and then they lined the stout stone walls in a show of martial array. The gate creaked and out shuffled Patriarch Chemosh, an ancient well over eight hundred years old. The brass gate clanged shut behind him and the bar dropped into place. Alone, carrying a wooden platter in his trembling hands, the robed ancient had approached the giant a furlong off.
Ymir towered over his Slayers . He stood in gleaming links, with a terrible demon mask and an axe in his hands, whose sharpened head could have been a ship’s anchor. As Patriarch Chemosh approached, Ymir stretched out his arm, pointing with his long-handled axe.
A burly Slayer, naked but for a bear cloak and a wolf-skin twisted around his groin, detached from the others and swaggered to intercept the old man . On the warrior’s tattooed chest thumped a silver amulet, stamped in the image of a wicked woman with horns. It was a spirit totem, said to impart courage and contempt of death. The Slayer, the big man, carried a spear, was bearded and had intense eyes.
“ Halt, old man,” the Slayer said.
“ I bring salt and bread,” old Chemosh said. The stone cup of salt rattled against the shaking platter and the round loaf of bread seemed alive the way it jumped and skittered. “Please, let me approach Ymir and offer them in peace.”
“ I am the Spellbinder, he who speaks for Ymir. And Ymir says—” the Slayer touched the platter with his spear-tip, and with a twist knocked it from the old man’s grasp.
“ Mercy, great Ymir!” Chemosh cried. The old dotard dropped to his knees, fumbling with the fallen cup of salt, putting it back onto the wooden plate, then letting go of it and stretching out his arms toward Ymir in a silent plea.
The Spellbinder stood above the patriarch, his spear held aloft for a death stroke . Yet the warrior spoke. In a loud voice, he shouted to those watching on the walls. “Come, let us reason together, you and I. You wish for dignity. We obey the will of Ymir. All that is left today is the manner of your death. Ymir urges you to a proud passing, noble and valorous. File out from your stone mound. Draw your swords. Then fight us, men of Chemosh! Prove to us your boldness. Gain renown and Ymir’s respect. Show yourselves warriors and honor us with hard-fought battle. Die bravely so that as heroes you may enter the shadowy halls of Death.”
Fright filled those on the walls . Atalanta, who stood among them, saw the men grow pale and their fingers slacken with terror.
Outside of the wall, ancient Chemosh groaned before the powerful warrior.
“Is there no dignity left in Chemosh?” the
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