Kaleb shifted on the ball of his foot and launched his spear. It tore through the air with a whistle, blasted the mud-brick wall, and splintered on impact.

  “Damn it,” he hissed, and the bronze tip clattered to the ground.

  Baqareb rushed up beside him. “Pitiful, Kaleb!” He lofted his own spear like a giant arrow. The flint tip punched into the mortar where four bricks met, spraying dust, and the shaft wobbled to a standstill. “That, my friend, is strength.”

  Kaleb wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Call it what you will. Bronze against flint is never fair.”

  Baqareb planted himself below the jutting spear. He had a boyish face, with wide, bright eyes and the least trace of stubble. The rest was man, though. His shoulders looked better placed on an ox, threaded with muscle and sinew, beaded with sweat.

  “Fairness is the talk of whores and lepers,” he said. “We picked those spears by lot, and you lost.”

  “Easy on Kaleb,” Jaspeth said. “They whipped the luck out of him yesterday.”

  Baqareb roared with laughter. He’d a habit of laughing at others’ misfortunes, especially Kaleb’s. But then, what else were friends for? Kaleb kicked his broken spear and settled beside Baqareb.

  The pink afterglow dimmed as twilight came. Kaleb adapted to the dark, able to see every crack and pock in the smashed walls and shattered columns. Spears lay to his left, tips rusted, shafts splintered. Long before his birth, these ruins had served as Kergalonian barracks. Few knew they’d left behind a trove of weapons.

  “Kaleb can’t leave well enough alone,” Tevreb said, striding into view. Her shawl was stitched with patterns of pomegranates. “Willin’ to die for some old man’s sake.”

  Kaleb chewed his cheek. “Zazeb should’ve thanked me.”

  Tevreb lit a lamp against the dark. “Forget that ingrate.”

  “Enough bellyaching,” Baqareb said. “Where’re the winner’s spoils? I’m famished!”

  Ateb and Omeb answered the call, bearing sacks whose seams were bursting. Twins, but one could tell them apart by their noses. Omeb’s wide and stubby, Ateb’s long and slender. Their garb itself matched, the same cut of linen held by the same length of rope.

  Baqareb clapped Kaleb. “Don’t think I won’t share.”

  Omeb arranged jugs and platters with great care, like a mason setting stones into place. Ateb produced fig dumplings glazed in date honey. Kaleb drooled. The twins also shared out skins of straw wine and bowls of goat’s yogurt. Life was good in this hellhole, sometimes.

  Baqareb chewed louder than anyone. “We’ll wax strong eating like this. Maybe then Kaleb’ll beat me.”

  “Starting to think I’ll never beat you,” Kaleb muttered.

  Ateb grinned, a stupid, hopeful glint in his eye. “God willing, we’ll be strong enough to beat Kergalon.”

  “No one’s beating Kergalon,” Omeb said, his voice notably gruffer than Ateb’s.

  “Baqareb cleared his throat. “Wise as serpents, they are.”

  “Numerous as locusts, you mean,” Jaspeth said. “How many are we, though?”

  Tevreb sipped from her wineskin nervously. “One hundred fifty-three thousand.”

  “How’d you know?” Baqareb asked.

  “Overheard the chieftain once.”

  “One hundred fifty-three thousand,” Jaspeth repeated. “How many Kergalonians are stationed in Toramesh? Ten thousand. Here, we outnumber them many times over.”

  Baqareb frowned. “Aye, but they have spears and we have spades. What’ll we wear for armor? Straw? Wool?”

  Ateb patted Baqareb. “At your size, you won’t need any armor.”

  He grinned, not immune to flattery. “You’re not wrong, Omeb.”

  “I’m Ateb.”

  Kaleb tried to savor his meal, but his friends kept waxing eloquent about mighty hosts charging into battle. They’d never strung bows, let alone fletched arrows. He knew precious little about battle himself, but at least he was honest.

  “Quiet,” Kaleb said. “We don’t want war anymore more than we want flood and famine. Kergalon would like war, though. That’d give them an excuse to crush us.”

  At the same time, the lamp flickered out.

  Baqareb’s face darkened. “Don’t be so glum, Kaleb.”

  “We’re only passing time,” Ateb said.

  Kaleb scooped a handful of yogurt. “Don’t speak of battle unless you’re willing to fight. You’re only getting your hopes up. That’s what my father taught me.” Did he? I hardly remember anything he said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Tevreb said. “I’ll take hope over none at all.”

  Baqareb cracked his knuckles. “If Kergalon wants war, I’m ready.”

  Kaleb downed some wine. “You’re the last person I’d march into battle with.”

  “Awfully prickly tonight, Kaleb,” Jaspeth said. “Is it because of Entunki?”

  “There’s someone who needs a spear through the face.”

  Omeb nodded. “He spat on me yesterday because I didn’t bow fast enough.”

  “Made me and others work till nightfall, the bastard,” Ateb said.

  Baqareb choked down the last dumpling, then belched. “Why’re you lot wasting away in the brickyards? Join me in the quarries. Harder work, sure, but a better life.”

  Kaleb shook his head. “Thanks, but no. The brickyards are bad enough.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be covered in dust than mud?”

  “I can’t just leave.”

  Baqareb grinned. “Don’t you keep your ears close to the ground, Kaleb? Since a fortnight ago, the quarries are taking all comers.”

  “From the brickyards, too?”

  “From the brickyards, too.” He stood, dislodged the spear, and rolled the shaft in his hands. “Masons and their families receive better food, better lodging. You won’t live in a tent anymore and you won’t have to eat that damn lentil stew every night.”

  “Hard work, though.”

  “Harder than that, but your mother can leave the fields. She’ll finally be able to rest.”

  Kaleb turned his palm. “Well?”

  “Can’t be worse than what we’ve seen,” Jaspeth said.

  That it couldn’t. Kergalon had once found other uses for Kaleb. Shortly after his fifteenth nativity day he’d been pulled from the brickyards and thrown onto the galleys. No one thought he’d survive that year at sea, rowing heavy oars in the sweltering heat with little to eat or drink. Somehow he’d endured, but to hell with galleys and brickyards. In the quarries he could carve out a better life.

  “Who do I look for?” Kaleb asked.

  “The master-builder, Dukalag,” Baqareb said. “He recruits at the market most mornings.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “I’ll take you up on your offer. If a clod like you can learn, then—”

  Without warning, Baqareb trapped him in a smothering embrace. “I knew you’d see reason! We’ll be quarry brothers now!”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, fool,” Kaleb said, muscling himself free. “I’m not making any promises.”

  After dusk, they gathered their belongings and quit the old barracks. Baqareb, Ateb, and Omeb mounted their donkeys and clopped away. Tevreb chose to walk with Kaleb. It didn’t take long to reach camp, where tents numbered in the hundreds, some squat, others tall as palm trees, all lit by lamps.

  Stars blinked far off, throbbing like old wounds. A full moon hung heavy among them, bathing the world in a blue-white glow.

  Kaleb chanced upon a one-eared jackal worrying a bloody bone, so he and Tevreb padded around the nearest corner. A drunk sprawled across their path, snoring. They crept over him soundlessly. Charming as ever, this cesspit.

  “You’re quiet,” Tevreb said. “Still upset about losin’ to Baqareb?”

  “I’ll get the better spear next time.”

  “What if you don’t?”

  “Wouldn’t be anything new. Losing is all I’ve ever done.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve no faith, Kaleb. How long’s it been since you prayed to the Most High?”

  He looked down. “Five moons. Six.”

  “Then you’ve got some gall, not trustin’ him.”

  Jaspeth cackled. “If Kaleb prayed to me, I’d look the other way.”

  “I pray with every breath,” Tevreb said. “Even as the whips crack down on me, I pray.”

  “I’m not one for prayer,” Kaleb said.

  Tevreb could be trusted on this matter, though. She never complained in the brickyards. If faith could carry her through the day, maybe it could do the same for Kaleb. He’d need it in the quarries. Strange idea, though, that there was a higher purpose.

  Tevreb reached her tent, opened the fly, and smiled back at Kaleb. “A prayer tonight, Kaleb. You won’t regret it.”

  He was alone now, with the night wind. “Jaspeth, where can I find the Most High?”

  “Forget it. Mother’s waiting for us.”

  “I’ll bear the blame. You can have my stew tomorrow.”

  He licked his lips. “A handsome reward. If memory serves, there’s an idol behind the Tabernacle.”

  Kaleb picked his way through the maze of tents, seen by not an eye, heard by not an ear.

  The air around the Tabernacle shook with clashing timbrels and thumping drums. Fires inside made the ram-skin walls see-through, throwing leaping, cavorting figures into relief. The chieftain could be seen on the other side, his gnarled fingers around some harlot’s hips. What happened to suffering for the tribe, Your Holiness?

  Kaleb slid down a slope in his reed-woven sandals and reached a patch of land where weeds grew in thick shocks. A thornbush snagged his sleeve along the way, but he yanked free and pressed onward. Ahead, something caught the moonlight.

  The Most High.

  He stood some ten cubits tall, hammered from bronze in the likeness of a virile, bearded man. A film of green patina covered him.

  He went by other names: El Ohev, El Shalom, El Kadosh. His true name was Elul, but most people weren’t holy enough to say it aloud. Not even the sheiks could get away with it, only the chieftain and the priests.

  Awe surged through Kaleb. His breath steamed in the cold as he drew close enough to touch. He clasped his hands together and dropped to his knees.

  “Don’t press too hard,” Jaspeth said. “I can’t breathe.”

  Kaleb closed his eyes. What to say? What not to say? His god never made things easy, always hiding away, only revealing himself to a choice few. Tevreb knew the psalms, right? Kaleb should’ve asked her for one, to help get started. Like most of his tribe, he couldn’t read. Maybe he should—

  Dirt shifted, almost out of earshot.

  His eyes snapped open, and something cracked into his skull. He saw sparks, took a moment to find his bearings. He rubbed the spot where he’d been struck. Beneath him lay a jagged stone, about the size of his knuckle.

  A boy slinked closer, aglow with moonlight. Eight years old maybe, curly of hair, reedy of limb, swimming in an oversized tunic. A gash stood out on his cheek, puckered, crusted black.

  Kaleb squinted. “I know you…”

  That boy had earned a lashing for overfilling Kaleb’s basin yesterday. The only problem was that someone else had whipped him, not Kaleb.

  The boy grinned from ear to ear.

  Kaleb stomped. “Blaming me, are you? You brought that upon yourself.” He gnashed his teeth as the boy lifted another stone. “Do it again, and I’ll break that arm!”

  He did it again, and the stone grazed Kaleb. The boy scampered away. Fast, damn it. Preternaturally fast. Kaleb chased, panting by the time he’d crested the hill. The boy was close to escaping.

  Kaleb wouldn’t let that happen.

  He ran his hardest, and his lungs ached, and his knees burned, and his prey slid back into view. The boy moved like nothing human, dashing like a leopard at times, leaping like a monkey at others. Kaleb wondered if he’d ever catch up.

  The boy slid to a halt at the next turn. Kaleb did the same, then planted his hands on his knees and wheezed. His feet were chafed raw from his sandals.

  A large hut woven from thick reeds and lush palm fronds loomed before him. The boy strode inside.

  “I’m not done with you.” Kaleb crossed the doorway. Something fouled the air on the other side. “What’s that smell? Where’d you go?”

  A single flame bled into the darkness. There stood the boy, holding up a rushlight. Propped against the wall beside him were two corpses, man and woman, gutted, innards tangled around nerveless fingers. The boy set the rushlight in a sconce, then withdrew a long bronze dagger.

  Kaleb edged away. “Don’t tell me you did this.”

  The boy stabbed at him.

  Kaleb slapped the dagger out of the boy’s hand and kicked him halfway across the room. Didn’t feel pride in harming a child, but a murderer is a murderer no matter how old. The boy whimpered, prone.

  “Quiet,” Kaleb said. “Get up. I’m taking you to Chieftain.”

  The boy’s mouth gaped, and out dribbled black, sticky globs. Kaleb shuddered, remembering Sachareb. Had this boy fallen prey to the same forces?

  That fear came to pass when something wriggled up the boy’s throat and spilled out in a tangle of scales and claws. The creature righted itself, shaking off blood and bile. Its fanlike ears snapped open, and its arms trailed behind webbed feet.

  “Stay away,” Kaleb warned the Gilgamite.

  It squatted not on its stout, jointless legs, but on its long arms, and leaped forth like a giant toad from the shallows.

  Kaleb smashed his elbow into the Gilgamite’s skull, sending it to the floor. It hissed, clawed, writhed. Kaleb gripped one of its ears and flung it against the wall. The little wretch didn’t get the chance to scurry away before Kaleb’s fists rained down on it, turning its head into a mush of blood and brain and slime. When the task was done, Kaleb stood and shook the feeling back into his fingers.

  “You’ve done it now,” Jaspeth said.

  “What’re we telling everyone?” Kaleb asked.

  “Nothing. The boy’ll be fine.”

  “What about the Gilgamites?”

  “Not our problem.”

  “Be quiet. You’re no help.”

  “Wait, Kaleb. I—”

  “Enough. I’m thinking.”

  “But I hear something.”

  “Wind.”

  “Not wind. Listen.”

  Aye, not wind. Footfalls. Someone entered the doorway, armed with a spear. One of the chieftain’s men? Thank heavens he’d arrived. Kaleb didn’t have to bear this alone now.

  “Good thing you came,” he said. “The boy needs help. He—”

  Something awful returned his gaze.

  Its pupils narrowed into snakelike slits. Though covered in scales, this one more resembled a man. From its necklace dangled shrunken skulls that bore tufts of hair and patches of flesh. Its long, wooden spear was honed to a deadly point.

  Another damn Gilgamite.

  No sooner did Kaleb blink than the spear flashed toward him. He threw himself against the wall, but not in time to stop the tip from opening his cheek. It burned as hot blood gushed down his jaw.

  Kaleb clamped both hands around the spear, keeping the tip a hair’s breadth from his eye. The Gilgamite thrashed, hissing, dragging him back and forth. When it tried to pull him closer, he released the spear, causing his foe to topple over.

  Kaleb bolted out of the hut, and chill air billowed around him. He glanced over his shoulder. That abomination was close on his heels, spear in hand. The way it moved was eerie, something between a glide and a sprint.

  “Home, Kaleb!” Jaspeth urged.

  “And lead that thing to Mother?”

  “Then where are we headed?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Kaleb dashed past the Tabernacle, drums still pounding within. Forget Chieftain. I don’t need him blaming me for this. He refused to look back again, for a single misstep could spell his death.

  “Why’re you leaving camp?” Jaspeth asked.

  “Trust me,” Kaleb said.

  Ahead, the ruins of the old barracks. Kaleb landed on a flagstone, then whipped around and found his pursuer two paces away. The spear flew, missing by a wider margin this time. Kaleb climbed a wall, loose bricks cracking under his grip, and lurched to the other side. The spear scored a scratch in the nearest pillar. The creature moved soundlessly, damn it, appearing whenever and wherever it pleased.

  Kaleb darted through the ruins, occasionally meeting the Gilgamite’s gaze. Those eyes unnerved him not because they were otherworldly, but because they were familiar, calling to mind something lost in the mists of time.

  Kaleb stopped before a familiar wall, the ground below strewn with old spears. His breath slowed, and he turned to find the Gilgamite padding toward him. It was winded too, swaying with each step.

  “You killed those two back there,” Kaleb said. “I took one of yours. No one else needs to die.”

  The Gilgamite leveled its spear, unconvinced.

  Kaleb rolled a shaft underfoot. “Fine.”

  His foe lunged at him. Kaleb ducked, seizing a spear of his own. He chuckled when he glimpsed the flint tip. You saved me, Baqareb.

  The Gilgamite flicked its forked tongue, then angled the spear downward. Kaleb bared his teeth, dodged in that instant. He plunged into the Gilgamite’s gut, driving the spear all the way through. The tip pierced the wall on the other side. Kaleb hadn’t lied. He’d choose flint over bronze any day.

  The Gilgamite dropped its spear.

  Kaleb twisted deeper into the thing’s belly, gore oozing onto his hands. “Are there more of you?”

  His foe hissed back, hardly an answer. Black globs dribbled from its lipless mouth. Kaleb yanked the spear free with a squelch. The Gilgamite doubled over and rasped its last breath.

  Kaleb rubbed the gash on his cheek, and his hand came away sticky, bright red. All he wanted was to crawl into his bedroll and sleep for three days, but his wants mattered little these days.

  “What about that prayer?” Jaspeth asked.

  He leaned back against the wall. “It can wait.”