Shiri (3 page)

IV

In sleep she heard the beat of hooves on stone, heard sobs and moans, pleas for mercy met by laughter.
I’ll wake up soon and find myself in bed, the smell of fresh baked bread warm about me.
She felt a fearsome stinging in her forehead, a bitter wind whipping around her. She tried to roll and wrap the blankets tighter. She couldn’t find them. Her bed was hard and cold as stone.

That throbbing in her forehead got worse and worse. She whimpered at the pain. In her dreams she pawed at it. It felt sticky, lumpy. Groggily she opened her eyes and looked at her hand. She shook her head, confused; it was red, red as the reddest wine. She heard those distant sobbing cries again. They seemed louder now.

Everything was louder, the cries, the wind, the pain. Her bed was gone and slowly realisation came. She remembered where she was, remembered the boulder, the mountains.
She remembered Ethan.
Ethan … he’s at the well fetching water. He’ll be back any moment, wide-eyed and grinning, insisting he follow close behind me as we climb.
Then she remembered more. She remembered blood. She remembered screams. Horror clawed at her chest.
No! It was a dream! It was a dream!

In panic she scrambled to her feet.
Everything was hazy. Everything was pain. The sun was high above her now, but still those chill winds blew. It was never warm this high above the village. She looked at her hand again.
Blood, it’s blood.
A burst of trumpets struck her like a blow. She jumped like a startled deer, shook her head and knew, knew it was no dream. She clutched at her boulder, rubbed her stinging eyes and dared to stare at the village far below, dared to hope she’d see her father chopping wood, her mother at the spinning wheel.

Instead she saw not a village, but a city, a city of tents and carts and Gyptos.

Yaham was jammed with men and horse, countless hundreds, thousands, more.
How could there be so many?
She glanced to the north, up towards the distant Pass of Gilboa. But that well worn road was empty. She held her hand to her pulsing forehead. All her senses seemed warped and blurry.
Did someone strike me without me knowing?
She looked again,
why is the pass so empty?
It made no sense.
Where else could they be going?

She looked to the thronging crowds again and saw a man. Astride a silver chariot he seemed to tower above them all. Giant black stallions, the largest horses she’d ever seen, snorted at the reins. The thousands parted before him. Her eyes found his great blue crown. It reminded her of something she’d seen before.
A dummy of wood and straw.
A solder had given Ethan a stick sword, encouraged him to hit it. She heard the Gyptos chanting a name and she realised who he was. He was Pharaoh and he’d come, come and offered Yaham the point of his sword.
Just like Ethan’s ‘prince’ had said.

She watched as Pharaoh tore through the fleshless bones of her village. Dust and pebbles flying high in his wake, hundreds more chariots following close behind. She saw them pass her house and gasped. The roof was gone, the walls crumpled and scorched, thin wisps of smoke still rising from its corpse. A moment she remembered.
The monster, the monster wreathed in gold
. She looked for him, but could see no sign. She watched as Pharaoh paused at the great well. Saw him gazing towards the Pass of Gilboa. That road was wide for these parts, wide and smooth.

There was another path too. Well, not really a path, just a rutted sheep trail that twisted and turned high into the unforgiving mountains. Shiri remembered travelling it once, two years past with her father and Old Dathan. The one and only time she had left the village for more than a day. They’d been taking a dozen of their finest stock to the markets of
Megiddo. Or Armegiddo, as Dathan liked to call it. He was ever fond of the ancient tongue. Her father had brought Lady and by night had talked much of the past, more than before or since.

She remembered making a campfire to keep off the chill night winds, remembered listening as he pointed to the stars, telling her stories about the biggest and brightest of them. He’d shown her three stars in a row. “There dwells the Shepherd of
Anu.
” He’d said, explaining how if she looked closely she could see head, legs, sword and bow. “More soldier than shepherd,” he’d whispered almost to himself. She looked where he pointed but could see little of such things. She’d cuddled in close to him then, he was warm and held her tight and she claimed she could see them all the same.

Shiri sniffed back a tear. It had been a hard trek over rock and stone, but it had been worth it. Her father’s money pouch had remained heavy throughout the next two seasons. She looked towards Pharaoh again, but … but he was not where she expected.

The Pass of Gilboa was still empty. She glanced towards the sheep trail. It was jammed and blocked with traffic. A Gypto soldier was struggling with a stubborn horse, and behind and before him men were cursing and stumbling forward. One man had a chariot wheel strapped to his back; another was whipping a donkey vigorously. Pharaoh’s chariot had stopped and was being dismantled. Even the Godking was proceeding on foot now. Realisation hit her like a bolt of lightning.
They mean to take the pass of Aruna, they … they mean to surprise the Shepherd King.

Shiri looked into the distance.
I know these hills better than any Gypto.
She gathered her reeling emotions into a solid block of anger, an anger driven by hate and pain. She felt her fists clench. She knew what she must do.
I must warn the King. I must or all will be lost. All will be Yaham.

Quiet as a ghost,
she took up her water satchel and picked her way carefully forward. It was broad daylight, but if she was to get to Megiddo before them she had to move
now
. She would shadow the army and then under cover of darkness race ahead. One last time she paused, stared back at the village of her birth, the smoking ruins of her house. Somewhere there her parents lay. She closed her eyes and prayed, prayed that at least they slept together.

She dried those eyes and turned again. She took a breath and firmed her jaw,
no more tears for you.
Yaham was dead and the high passes lay ahead. She could see the soaring mountain-tops wreathed in cloud, below them sheer cliffs, rocky, impassable to all save those of mountain birth, and below the cliffs the dusty rutted trail, the never ending snake of Gypto soldiers. She took a breath and steeled her nerves.
Somehow I will find the Shepherd King. Somehow I will warn him.

V

Josef stared out over the battlements, stared at the camp fires, the funeral pyres.
It was my fault, all my fault.

He’d been just a boy when they’d taken her, not twelve or thirteen years.
If I was never born she’d still be alive.
He looked to his father, cold and hard and strong as stone, watched him turn, nod, smile. But Josef felt it still, that ever present accusation. He’d never said it of course, but it was always there, something in his father’s eyes.
Better if I was never born … does he think it of me too?

Josef turned from that piercing gaze.
No, it was not my fault, not my fault, I was just a boy
. He remembered how it had happened, in his dreams, in his nightmares. He saw himself taking his mother by the hand.
She was beautiful.
He’d tugged at her, pulled her half laughing from their cottage. “Horses Mama! They have horses!”

He remembered how she’d taken his head in her hands, kissed his forehead and agreed they’d look for just a moment. And look they did, gazing in awe as the soldiers passed in chariots pulled by mighty steeds. Josef could still smell the horses; still recall the splendour of their flags and banners fluttering in the morning breeze. She’d tugged at his arm, “That’s enough,” she’d said. But he’d refused to go and held her tight as the Gypto governor’s litter drew near, all silver, gold and strangely coloured curtains, a dozen slaves carrying it on their shoulders.

He remembered how they’d heard a voice from behind those curtains, remembered the litter coming to a sudden stop. The curtains parted ever so slightly, an arm extended, a finger beckoning them closer. Josef’s eyes fixed on the ring, yellow gold and blue stones coiled together in a twisting serpent form. And then he heard that voice address his mother, “Beautiful One,” it had called her, a soft, evil chuckle, and then the fateful words that sealed her fate, “A creature such as this is wasted in the fields.”

A click of the fingers was all it took. A brace of soldiers came and grabbed her, hauled her towards the governor’s litter. Josef remembered her screaming, fighting, telling him to run. But he hadn’t run. A stick sword in his hand he’d fought them. They’d laughed and shoved him to the ground. And then the procession was marching again, his mother’s screams fading into the distance.

That was when it started. His father’s rage had known no bounds. No more than a shepherd, yet somehow he’d raised the men of their village; dozens came to offer him their swords. And soon more villages came, more clans, first in hundreds and then in thousands. Somehow his father rallied them all and marched an army to the governor’s palace; somehow he battered down its walls and took the demon’s head.
Too late, all too late,
her lifeless body was already growing cold when his father … when the Shepherd King found her.
All my fault.

Josef looked at him again and saw it in his hand, one lock, even redder than he remembered.
All that was left of her,
he stretched a finger towards it. Their Beautiful One was dead, yet still her war raged on, Pharaoh himself was on the march, thousands slain and more to come. Josef met his father’s gaze, “Ten thousand and what do they fight for?”

The King’s fist snapped shut, he showed Josef his back. “Land they say, lan
d and bread.” He shook his head, “A fist full of dirt and a promise.” He turned back to his son, his great black beard flecked by grey, his towering shoulders seeming to sag just a little. “I promised them bread and land, Josef, what have I brought but blood and death?”

“You’ve brought hope,” Josef tried, “You’ve brought freedom.”

The King opened his palm again, rubbed the lock with his finger. “Do men eat hope? Do they drink freedom?”

Josef heard a footfall behind him, saw his father’s face grow dark. The Prince was quick to realise the cause,
Yuya, son of the man who’d slain her.
“Your chariot is ready, master.” Yuya spoke softly, nervously. He was ever thus when in the King’s presence.

A year before
, while the Shepherd King fought the governor’s guards, Josef had cornered Yuya in his bedchamber. He’d stood above him sword in hand as Yuya begged for mercy, swearing he’d serve him if only Josef spared his life. Yuya was of an age with himself, he’d committed no crime, had wanted none of their war. Josef couldn’t bring himself to kill him and so had done the only thing he could to save his life. He’d taken him as his slave.

His father’s voice was suddenly harsh. “I still say you shorten this one by a
head.”

“
It was not the son but the father that committed the crime,” Josef said. He glanced briefly at the slave. Yuya bowed low, a friendly, submissive smile on his face. “Perhaps I am too soft, Father, but … but Yuya is innocent in all that happened and if we murder without thought, then how are we any better than the Gyptos?”

The King grunted.
“Aye, well, just remember where this dog’s loyalties lie. You treat him as a brother, but he’s a Gypto and as likely to spear you as serve you.” He looked passed the slave, a hundred men strong and true stood there waiting, he stepped towards his son. “Are you ready then?”

Josef nodded.
My time has come.
If he succeeded in his mission and the Legions of Mitanni joined their ranks, he’d prove his worth, not only to his father, but to the ten thousand. “Old King Aratama’s messengers tell it true, he brings his army to the Kishon River, not three hours ride from here. He offers us five thousand spears and an outstretched hand of friendship.”

His father smiled at that.
“Whatever his promises I’d wager Aratama will be last in and on the winning side.”

Jos
ef spun and mounted his chariot. Yuya jumped up beside him. For half a year Josef had journeyed from clan to clan, town to town, raising soldiers for the cause, even the smallest village had not escaped him. A moment he recalled one such village, a tiny secluded village high in the mountains, recalled a girl and smiled.
Perhaps I will go there again when the war is over.
But Mitanni was different, not a village but an empire, the fate of the rebellion in the balance. Without Mitanni they could not hope to defeat Pharaoh. “I will bring you Mitanni, Father. I will bring you Mitanni.”

VI

Shiri stumbled on while Pharaoh’s armies rested. Throughout the night she struggled and climbed ever further. In darkness she fell and gashed her hands and knees several times. But she did not stop.
I have to get there before them.

Under a pale moon and star filled sky, she trudged without pause. In the depths of the mountains the cliffs grew even steeper and she was forced closer to the thin valley floor. As black skies slowly turned grey, and birdsong welcoming the coming dawn filled her ears, she found herself standing on the thin sheep trail at the bottom of the pass. She looked back and could see no sign of the Gypto host.
I’m outpacing them.

Her water satchel was empty, her lips cracked, her mouth and throat ached, but somehow she kept moving. The sun had already fallen from noon when she found the stream. She collapsed beside it and drank deep of its waters. No drink ever tasted so sweet. A little stronger now, she refilled her satchel and rose again. For a moment she thought she could hear the beat of Gypto drums echoing against the sheer cliffs behind her. A short burst of speed was the result, but soon enough she’d slowed to the same dogged trudge.

As the shadows lengthened and darkness descended for a second time, she knew she couldn’t be far from the great plain that lay at the far side of the pass. The cliffs to either side were becoming less severe and even the trail itself had grown a little wider.
The worst of Aruna is behind me.
She tried to force her legs to keep moving, but at last they refused to obey. She stumbled to her hands and knees, struggled to rise and failed. That was it. She was defeated. She could go no further without rest. Without permission her eyes slowly closed.

Sleep took her quickly and with it came dreams, dreams and nightmares that for all their horror were little worse than the waking world she’d left behind. She saw her father slain by laughing Gypto soldiers, saw her mother crying, begging for mercy. Shiri called to her
, but she didn’t hear.

Shiri heard other cries too, more distant but growing ever louder. A great fortress in flames! Fire and smoke, thunder and lightning, huge armies coming together, endless thousands of men fighting and dying, “Armegiddo!” she heard Old Dathan shout the name. It carried a terrible menace she had not noticed before.

She saw ravenous Gypto warriors surging through the streets of the city on the hill. She saw the face of the monster and she saw the Shepherd King. He was a giant, invincible, and yet he was kneeling, kneeling at the monster’s feet. The monster looked at her. He smiled and played with his bracelets. Slowly he began to walk towards her. Shiri awoke with a start.

It was still night, but the stars were fading, only three were still visible.
The Shepherd of Anu points the way.
Everything was quiet, so quiet. She shivered in the cold before struggling to all fours and then slumping into a sitting position. Dawn was all but upon her.
I slept too long.

Everything ached and nothing seemed to work pr
operly. Her fingers, arms, legs; they felt light, numb, weak, almost as if they were detached from her body and belonged to someone else. They didn’t want to listen to her, they wanted to rest, wanted to lie back down and not get up. Shiri willed them to obey, willed herself to rise.
It can’t be that much further, it just can’t be.

She took a step forward. The rocks beneath her foot crunched. It sounded loud. She could hear it echoing all the way back along the pass. She took a second step and looked ahead. The mountains in front of her seemed to be falling away and the pass was opening out ever wider, and there, under the golden light of a rising sun, she saw it; the great and fabled plain of Jezreel. And beyond that, standing like an island in a sea of grass,
Megiddo, the city on the hill.
He’s there … the Shepherd King.
Another step followed and then another.