Spellbinder asked.
T he second-oldest son of Chemosh, the one who had forced his father outside with the salt, handed his bow to his son. The elder had a sly bearing, a crafty smile like a fox. He cupped his slender hands around his mouth and shouted from the parapet. “We’ll fight if we have too. We’ll drive shafts into any that approach too near. Yet that seems foolish. We have silver, gold and precious gems. We would gladly trade these with you if you agreed to sack the compound of Clan Kenaz. They are a vicious people, worthy only of death.”
“ You are not to say who is worthy of death! You lack the dignity for such judgments. Do you not understand that only weaklings hide behind walls?” The Spellbinder toed the trembling patriarch. “You sent a dotard as your champion. Your gold therefore already belongs to Ymir.”
“ Some of you will die if you attack us,” the foxy-faced elder shouted, his voice growing shrill.
A braying of horns brought a throated roar from the ranks of Slayers round Ymir . Then a long rolling of kettledrums like thunder in the mountains bid the Slayers to chant in a deep and terrible way.
The Spellbinder put his foot on Patriarch Chemosh . “You are beneath contempt!” he roared. “So it will be under the blades of mercenary spearmen you perish and not under the axes of Slayers! Mighty Ymir is ashamed to have donned armor for the likes of you. For such blasphemy, none shall escape your compound alive. This Ymir swears by his father Azel.”
As the drums continued to roll, the men of Chemosh unwound banners and waved them back and forth along the walls . But their motions lacked conviction and many faces had grown wan and bloodless.
“ For the third and final time,” the Spellbinder shouted. “Is this your champion: A groveling old man?”
“ Mercy,” the patriarch begged.
The Slayer turned to his master.
Ymir handed his huge axe to a warrior, who wrapped it carefully in oiled sealskin. Then the giant took a leather jug from a shaman, a man wearing a vile mask that sprouted deer antlers. Ymir pulled out the jug’s stopper. While he did so, a massive Slayer shrugged off his bear cloak and drew off his silver amulet, handing the items to a second shaman. Then the Slayer knelt before the Nephilim as if in prayer. Ymir touched the Slayer’s shoulder. The Slayer tilted his head and opened his mouth like a baby bird. Ymir poured from the jug. The Slayer gulped, almost gagging because of the volume of sluggish liquid.
Meanwhile, the other Slayers parted ranks . Spearmen of Nod with heavy shields and coats of mail filed to the forefront.
Drums beat and the Ymir-selected Slayer struggled to his feet, helped up by the shamans . The massive man swayed, and he began to shiver and shake.
“ You have chosen!” the Spellbinder cried. He stabbed ancient Chemosh. Then he withdrew the dripping spear and ran at the walls. “In like manner will you die: groveling and powerless, an object of scorn. Ymir, grant us the victory!” With his shoulders bunching, the Spellbinder heaved the spear as enemy bows snapped at him.
The bloody spear passed over the wall as men of Clan Chemosh ducked on the parapets.
Atalanta moaned in dread . For in that instant a wave of fear— War-Fetters , the Slayers called it—seemed to bind the sons of the dead patriarch.
Even so , some of the men of Chemosh fired arrows at the gloating Spellbinder. Most hissed harmlessly past. One sank into his shoulder, staggering him. He laughed, plucking the arrow from his shoulder, showing it to the men of Chemosh. They gaped stupidly, never having witnessed such a thing. The Spellbinder threw the arrow to the ground. In contempt, he turned his back on them and strode to Ymir.
Those on the walls were too shocked to shoot more arrows.
Meanwhile, archers of Havilah ran toward the wall. In teams of two, they hefted huge, man-sized shields.
The crafty elder of Chemosh shouted to his brothers . They awoke from their
T he second-oldest son of Chemosh, the one who had forced his father outside with the salt, handed his bow to his son. The elder had a sly bearing, a crafty smile like a fox. He cupped his slender hands around his mouth and shouted from the parapet. “We’ll fight if we have too. We’ll drive shafts into any that approach too near. Yet that seems foolish. We have silver, gold and precious gems. We would gladly trade these with you if you agreed to sack the compound of Clan Kenaz. They are a vicious people, worthy only of death.”
“ You are not to say who is worthy of death! You lack the dignity for such judgments. Do you not understand that only weaklings hide behind walls?” The Spellbinder toed the trembling patriarch. “You sent a dotard as your champion. Your gold therefore already belongs to Ymir.”
“ Some of you will die if you attack us,” the foxy-faced elder shouted, his voice growing shrill.
A braying of horns brought a throated roar from the ranks of Slayers round Ymir . Then a long rolling of kettledrums like thunder in the mountains bid the Slayers to chant in a deep and terrible way.
The Spellbinder put his foot on Patriarch Chemosh . “You are beneath contempt!” he roared. “So it will be under the blades of mercenary spearmen you perish and not under the axes of Slayers! Mighty Ymir is ashamed to have donned armor for the likes of you. For such blasphemy, none shall escape your compound alive. This Ymir swears by his father Azel.”
As the drums continued to roll, the men of Chemosh unwound banners and waved them back and forth along the walls . But their motions lacked conviction and many faces had grown wan and bloodless.
“ For the third and final time,” the Spellbinder shouted. “Is this your champion: A groveling old man?”
“ Mercy,” the patriarch begged.
The Slayer turned to his master.
Ymir handed his huge axe to a warrior, who wrapped it carefully in oiled sealskin. Then the giant took a leather jug from a shaman, a man wearing a vile mask that sprouted deer antlers. Ymir pulled out the jug’s stopper. While he did so, a massive Slayer shrugged off his bear cloak and drew off his silver amulet, handing the items to a second shaman. Then the Slayer knelt before the Nephilim as if in prayer. Ymir touched the Slayer’s shoulder. The Slayer tilted his head and opened his mouth like a baby bird. Ymir poured from the jug. The Slayer gulped, almost gagging because of the volume of sluggish liquid.
Meanwhile, the other Slayers parted ranks . Spearmen of Nod with heavy shields and coats of mail filed to the forefront.
Drums beat and the Ymir-selected Slayer struggled to his feet, helped up by the shamans . The massive man swayed, and he began to shiver and shake.
“ You have chosen!” the Spellbinder cried. He stabbed ancient Chemosh. Then he withdrew the dripping spear and ran at the walls. “In like manner will you die: groveling and powerless, an object of scorn. Ymir, grant us the victory!” With his shoulders bunching, the Spellbinder heaved the spear as enemy bows snapped at him.
The bloody spear passed over the wall as men of Clan Chemosh ducked on the parapets.
Atalanta moaned in dread . For in that instant a wave of fear— War-Fetters , the Slayers called it—seemed to bind the sons of the dead patriarch.
Even so , some of the men of Chemosh fired arrows at the gloating Spellbinder. Most hissed harmlessly past. One sank into his shoulder, staggering him. He laughed, plucking the arrow from his shoulder, showing it to the men of Chemosh. They gaped stupidly, never having witnessed such a thing. The Spellbinder threw the arrow to the ground. In contempt, he turned his back on them and strode to Ymir.
Those on the walls were too shocked to shoot more arrows.
Meanwhile, archers of Havilah ran toward the wall. In teams of two, they hefted huge, man-sized shields.
The crafty elder of Chemosh shouted to his brothers . They awoke from their
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