Joash staggered past the last boulder, and saw through his sweaty, blurry haze that he’d reached another cliff. Below, a river flowed. It was a long drop. Joash released his rock, heard it clack, forced his legs into a wild sprint, and launched himself airborne as he managed a forlorn shout.
As he flailed, he rocketed toward the water, seconds later plunging into the cool liquid. Then he was bobbing to the surface, gasping. Weakly, he struggled for shore. A loud splash told him that Balak had followed. The massive beastmaster swam strongly after him, laughing, promising grim punishments.
Joash refused to let the strong current pull him under. He would fight until the last ounce of strength drained from his body. Maybe if he could drag himself ashore ahead of Balak, he could find a rock and dash it at the beastmaster as he waded for land.
Soon, Joash plowed through scratching reeds as mud sucked at his feet. He reeled from final exhaustion. Then, he burst through the last reeds and came upon a startled warrior.
The crouched warrior had a princely face, with green eyes, and long red hair. He wore chainmail, a belted short sword and had thick wrists wrapped with leather straps. He had been scrubbing a dish with sand and still held the metal dish.
“Who are you?” the warrior asked.
Joash tried to speak as he staggered closer. Then, he crashed to his knees onto the sand.
The reeds parted again as a dripping Balak bulled into view. “He’s an escaped slave,” the beastmaster said.
The warrior raised an eyebrow.
“He’s mine,” Balak added.
Joash wearily shook his head.
“He holds an opposing view,” the warrior said, his voice hardening.
Balak slapped his massive chest. He was like a bear, a half-giant compared to the warrior, and with Nephilim blood.
“I purchased him in Shamgar,” Balak growled.
“A pirate den,” the warrior said, standing, tossing his dish onto the sand.
“I hold him by Gog’s writ,” Balak said. “The strong shall enslave the weak.”
“Do you follow Gog?” the warrior asked Joash.
“Never,” Joash whispered.
“Your writ has no meaning here,” the warrior told Balak.
Balak spat, and he shrugged off his sodden bear fur. He had thick muscles, more coarse hair, and strange tattoos. From his belt he drew a murderously long knife, a curved thing with a glistening edge. “Do you desire death?”
“Yours,” the warrior said, and the short sword was in his rugged hand.
“I am a beastmaster,” Balak said, implying that his Nephilim blood gave him supernatural mastery over his chosen animals. He was both taller and thicker than the otherwise tall warrior.
Even so, the princely warrior laughed recklessly. “I am Herrek of Teman Clan, of Elon. I serve Elohim.”
Balak roared wildly, his eyes blazing wrath, and he bull-rushed the smaller warrior.
Joash witnessed the fight of his life. Herrek of Teman Clan was fast, nimble on his feet and obviously skilled with the blade. Yet, he lacked Balak’s sheer size and outlandish strength. Balak also moved like a wounded bear, with sudden and dangerous speed. The long knife flickered. There was a clink, and a piece of iron-link flew from Herrek’s mail, as the warrior staggered. He dodged the next slash, recovered his balance, and soon their blades clashed again. Balak roared with a gash along his ribs that dripped blood and trickled to his waist.
“I’ll gut you for my wolves to feed,” Balak snarled. “I’ll lap your blood and feast on your spirit.”
Herrek panted heavily. He was strong, fast, and a superb swordsman, but he was only human, without the blood of the divine that helped Balak. They must have both sensed it.
“You were a fool to interfere,” Balak laughed.
“Elohim has a strange affinity for fools,” the warrior panted. “So I am satisfied.”
Balak roared rage at the mention of that name. His long, curved dagger blurred and beat aside the warrior’s sword. Balak plunged metal through mail, stabbing into Herrek’s side. The force of the blow snapped Herrek off his feet. He crashed backward, thudding onto sand.
Joash moaned, and he launched himself from where he’d panted. Balak whirled. The beastmaster had fantastic reserves of strength and stamina. A grin spread across his coarse face. Joash hurled his fistfuls of sand. It was a basic tactic, but it worked, maybe because even beastmaster’s cannot run and fight forever. Balak bellowed angrily, wiped at his stung eyes, and swung his knife in an arc. He cut Joash in the hip. Then Joash crashed against huge Balak, staggering the massive man.
Bleeding and exhausted, Joash sank onto the sand.
Balak blinked wildly and rubbed his eyes. He snarled when he could see again. The warrior stood before him, waiting.
“You should have attacked while I—”
Balak didn’t have time to finish his admonishment. The warrior lunged, sinking his sword into Balak’s throat. A few moments later, the beastmaster crashed dead onto the sand.
Herrek of Teman Clan looked gravely upon Joash. Blood leaked from the warrior’s chainmail where he held his hand. “Your lunge at him was unfair,” the warrior said. “I don’t approve, as we fought in single combat. But I’m alive and so are you. And it appears I now owe you my life.”
“I owe you mine,” Joash said.
The warrior nodded curtly and turned away. When he regarded Joash again, the warrior asked, “Do you follow Elohim?”
“Now I do,” Joash said.
The warrior rubbed his chin. “You’re bleeding. Let’s patch that… then you’d better join me. Gog claims this land, and the sooner we’re gone, the better for both of us. Yes?”
Joash nodded, too tired to say anything more.
CHAPTER TWO
Sabertooths
“The land we explored devours those living in it. All the people we saw there are of great size. We saw the Nephilim there (the descendants of Anak come from the Nephilim). We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them.”
Two Years Later
The Elonite expedition into Giant Land was daring. Seldom did human ships disgorge warriors onto these wind-swept shores. When they did, it was usually so the warriors could gain the vainglorious trophies of mammoth, sabertooths, or great sloth. Then they hastily retreated to their ships and sailed for safety. That Lord Uriah, a patriarch of two peoples, and well over five hundred years old, had come to Giant Land to capture steppe ponies verged on madness.
However, for ten lucky days the Elonite charioteers had roamed the steppes unharmed. For ten fortuitous days, because no giants were seen, the charioteers cut selected stallions from the herds, and took them to the camp at Hori Cove where they stayed.
On the eleventh day, several unusual incidents occurred. Those with the gift could have read the signs and foretold the future, because like a cold gust on a muggy summer day the incidents gave warning of the hurricane to come. Unfortunately, fortune-tellers, like weathermen, did their best work from hindsight. Therefore, the Elonites did as others and stumbled from one moment to the next, unaware that the signposts to the future had given their final warning.
Long-limbed Joash skidded to a stop. He wore leathers, crisscrossing leather straps—one held a sloshing water-skin and the other his dagger—and he clutched a javelin. It was fashioned from black Tem wood, varnished smooth, and with a glinting bronze head, with the tiniest smear of blood on the tip.