Abraham Allegiant (Chronicles of the Nephilim Book 4) (27 page)

But Marduk did not attack Ashtart. Instead, he pulled out the huge sledgehammer sheathed on his back. He swung down mightily and hit the earth with a thunderous strike. The Jordan Valley was a geological rift of earthquake activity. Marduk hit a fault line and a shockwave resounded outward from the epicenter of his hammer.

A huge tremor, followed by a quake, threw the human armies to the ground and some of them into the bitumen pits. A large crevice opened up underneath Ashtart and she fell deep into the earth. Marduk jumped in after her.

Chedorlaomer finally found his break in the battle on the field. Ashtart’s demonic hordes were holding the middle. But he noticed that the weakest forces were those of Admah, Zeboiim, and Zoar. So he concentrated his assault on them in order to demoralize the others. And it worked. They decimated the left flank of the pentapolis army and drove a wedge into them on the right. The kings of Admah, Zeboiim, and Zoar fled on their chariots into the hill country to get away, and their forces fell apart, leaving only Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Nephilim possessed armies were strong, but not that strong as to take on Chedorlaomer’s entire army hedging them in. And it did not help that the spirits of possession were more chaotic than organized. Their advantage quickly dissolved in the face of organized overwhelming attack.

Deep in the earth, Ashtart could see Marduk coming for her. The huge walls of rock rose above her like prison walls. She was beginning to panic. She was his equal with a weapon, but not in strength, and certainly not without a weapon. She was going to have to use cunning to overcome him now. Marduk climbed down the rock and found her on a ledge waiting for him.

He said, “Your mockery and abuse will do you no help down here, queenie. Prepare for your imprisonment.”

He reached her and grabbed her by the throat. But she was not going to play fair. She grabbed his testicles and squeezed with all her power.

Marduk screamed in pain and released her throat.

She squeezed again and he almost fainted.

But he did not faint.

He grabbed her wrist and broke it in two. She yelped in pain and withdrew her hand, now useless.

He took off his belt and tied both her hands together to stop her shenanigans.

And he pummeled her again. Only this time, her disorientation was real.

He had longed for such vengeance for years, and now was receiving orgasmic pleasure from it as her Watcher blood splattered all over him and the walls of rock around them.

When King Bera of Sodom and King Birsha of Gomorrah realized they were only minutes away from total annihilation by the Eastern coalition, they commandeered their chariots for a retreat into the hills like the other kings.

They failed to issue any other commands to their forces, and turned their chariots back around.

But Bera’s chariot was so cumbersome, that he could not make the turns quickly enough to avoid the bitumen pits. His chariot hit Birsha’s chariot and both of their vehicles plunged into a pool of black pitch. It was not on fire, and it was not deep, so they would not die. But they were stuck, and would now be caught by the enemy who was almost upon them.

Bera looked up and saw Mesopotamians coming at them with pikes raised. He became so fearful, he lost his bowels and defecated all over himself. Unfortunately, he had been eating figs earlier, so it came out like a diarrhetic blast of feces and urine. All he could keep saying in his state of shock was, “Why me? Why me? Why me?”

The humiliation was apropos. He was a pathetic ruler whose public pompous bombast was only equaled by his private sniveling self-obsession.

The Eastern forces surrounded Bera and Birsha with pikes at the ready. They prepared to die an ignominious death.

Down in the crevice, Marduk threw the limp form of Ashtart down another fifty feet of rock wall until she hit the bottom. He ripped a boulder from the wall and raised it above his head to finish her off before he returned to the surface to hammer the crevice closed.

But through her broken bloodied face, Ashtart shouted, “Wait!”

Marduk paused.

“You have bested me, Marduk,” she said. “There is no doubt that you are the king of the gods, and I am your inferior.”

He could not believe it. Was she really going to try to flatter him at this moment? Desperation at facing her imprisonment obviously made her willing to try anything.

“But I have an offer to make you.”

Marduk scoffed, “You are in no position to bargain with me, quim.”

“Please hear me out before you seal me in this tomb,” she said.

He knew she was cunning, but he also knew she was brilliant when it came to strategic pursuits of power. He was not as smart as she was, so he would listen to what she had to say before he crushed her forever.

She saw him hesitate and took her chance to keep talking. “You are the Babylonian king of the gods, but Mesopotamia is falling apart. Canaan is the future. I was allotted this land and I have been developing it to breed the Seedline of the Serpent to rival the Seed of the Woman.”

That appealed to Marduk’s interests more than anything.

“It is true, you can simply chain me here and take over by yourself. But you need someone who knows this land to help you. Someone who is strong enough to be your right hand. Your subservient submissive right hand.”

“And you are that chosen one,” he said with sarcasm.

“I would be your consort. I would submit to you as I did to Anu before the flood. You know I was loyal, and I never usurped him. I knew my place.”

She was speaking the truth in this case. She
did
obey Anu, so she did what she had to do to survive.

She said, “I not only have the ear of Mastema, I have his support.”

This piqued his interest. If Mastema was behind her, it validated her claims to the seedline of the Serpent.

She continued, “I created the mythology here as well. You could change your identity to the local storm god and I would help you rise to power, choose a new holy mountain, and help you build a temple as king of these gods. Alone, you might accomplish some of this, but with my help, I can assure you supremacy over all, because I built this land.”

“And you would do all this to my benefit,” he said sarcastically.

“Mighty Marduk,” she said, “I have lost our contest. You are decidedly my superior. I face eternal imprisonment or humiliating survival. Do you blame me for choosing the latter? As far as I am concerned, if benefitting you benefits me, then yes, I will do all this to your benefit. You will be the most high god, and I will be your consort. I will submit to your authority and obey your will. You will receive all the glory for my accomplishments here in Canaan. In return, I will avoid captivity, and I will be your strategist.”

This was indeed a tempting offer. She would be the intellect behind his power.

And then she turned seductive. It was amazing how she could create an erotic aura to her presence almost instantly.

“Do not forget,” she said, “I am also the goddess of sex. I have developed the art of erotic pleasure as no one else has. I will satisfy you as no one else can. And I will submit to your abuse with cheer.”

Her last statement was laced with an erotic shiver that finally convinced Marduk of his advantage.

He said, “If I sense you are betraying me in any way, I will cut you in pieces and cast you into the earth.”

She said, “As you clearly have the power to do.”

“What is this storm god’s name?” he asked.

“Ba’al,” she said. “It means lord or owner.’”

“I like it,” he said. “It has a nice ring to it.”

The pentapolis forces had laid down their arms and knelt before Chedorlaomer and his three other kings of Mesopotamia. The kings of Sodom and Gomorrah, Bera and Birsha, were retrieved from the bitumen pit and cleaned off as best as possible. But they were not about to be killed today. Chedorlaomer let them live at the request of Marduk and his new escort Ashtart. They would remain subservient vassals of Elam.

Marduk told Chedorlaomer he was going to stay behind in Canaan and take on a new identity as Ba’al, the most high. The king of Elam was disappointed, but knew he had no choice in the matter. He had been allowed these many years to build his own kingdom with Marduk, but he would have to continue on without him.

Chedorlaomer now paced before the royalty of the city. They were not sure if he was going to humiliate them all or execute them.

He gestured to Amraphel, who stood forward and pronounced through his scratchy choking voice, “Dear people of the pentapolis, we are looking for a specific man. We have word that he is somewhere in Canaan. Should any of you have information as to his whereabouts, you will receive a large reward. This man goes by the name of Abram of Harran, or Abram ben Terah.”

Ashtart was amused watching this Amraphel, whom she had once known as the mighty hunter king Nimrod of Babylon. Yet, now he had been degraded into a babbling gaunt shell of man — a madman — with nervous tics in his eyes and body muscles. He seemed hardly fit for rule, and she could smell his disgusting odor, having soiled his clothes without washing.

Amraphel concluded his inquiry, “Is there anyone who knows of this man and where we can find him?”

Everyone looked at each other in ignorance. No one had heard of the name.

No one, except one man.

And that man stepped forward.

It was Canaan. He had managed to stay out of the limelight, but now found his only possible chance of seeing that Chosen Seed of El Shaddai captured and killed, forever thwarting the goals of the god who had cursed him.

“I do not know where he is, my lord, but I know one of our own esteemed citizens is his relative, and he will surely have the information you seek.”

Amraphel looked at Canaan curiously. Had he seen him before? He could not remember.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“I am Canaan.”

Amraphel’s lack of response told Ashtart that Marduk, who was now Ba’al, never told Amraphel about Ashtart’s plans, and neither had Sinleqi, the scribe who helped her track down Canaan through the genealogy rolls. When Marduk made the deal with Ashtart to get her enchantment spell over the sea dragon, he had actually remained true to his promise of secrecy.

Ah, another weakness,
she thought.
Marduk does not break his promises. I shall use that against him one day.

“Who is the man you speak of?” said Amraphel.

“Lot, the nephew of Abram.”

“Arrest this Lot and bring him to the torture chamber.”

Ba’al’s first order of business was to brutally rape Ashtart in order to establish his alpha authority over her. Because she was divine, she could handle more violence and pain than any human could withstand and live. And Ba’al made sure to stretch it to the limit. He had pent up a lot of anger at this divine cross-dressing wench for many years, and now he would take it out on her full force. What he used to do to Nimrod was gentility compared to what he had planned for her. When he was through, she would need days to recover. But she knew her place after that.

He shoved her into one of the rape rooms of the palace and pulled out his first toy, a two-foot obsidian image of himself standing erect. He was going to use it
to penetrate
Ashtart. He grinned with pride at the symbolic irony.

Down in the torture dungeon of Sodom, Amraphel paced before the supine form of Lot. He could not be allowed to die, so they avoided the more gruesome tortures such as flaying, or staking, or sitting in the tub, in favor of simpler old style torture.

First, they beat him bloody and senseless. Lot had lost a few teeth, broke several ribs, and had to be brought back to consciousness with foul smelling herbs. Then they engaged in water torture to wear him down into a blubbering fool gasping for mercy. It was funny how the oldest and simplest techniques were often the best. Simple dribbling of water on the forehead could reduce a man to insanity within a day.

For himself, Lot was trying to hold on as long as he possibly could so that when he blurted out his lie, even
he
would believe he was telling the truth. He just kept telling himself over and over that Abram was hiding out in Bashan near Damascus, some hundred and twenty miles north of Sodom, and that he was not going to tell them that.

But now, he was delirious and he was not sure what was the truth and what was the lie. But he trusted himself and kept telling himself that Abram was in Bashan near Damascus.

Amraphel leaned over and asked Lot for the fiftieth time, “Where is Abram of Harran?”

“I do not know,” whimpered Lot. He was crying and delirious.

Amraphel spasmed with anger and flew into a rage. “I have no more patience for this fool! Start cutting off his fingers.”

Lot was not even sure what he had heard, until the sharp pain of a blade cutting off his left pinkie finger cracked him out of his delirium.

He screamed.

Amraphel said, “Where is Abram?”

“I do not know.”

The blade was put to another finger.

Lot screamed in pain again.

Amraphel gave a sickly grin. “You have twenty chances.”

After Lot’s fingers, he was going to cut off his toes.

The blade rested on his third finger.

Lot yelled, “Wait! Please do not! I will tell you! I will tell you where he is!” And then Lot burst out into remorseful tears.

He had been broken.

“Where is he?”

Lot said through sobbing tears, “In Bashan near Damascus! In Bashan near Damascus! Abram, I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

It had worked. Even he had believed it for the moment, and his brokenness convinced Amraphel as well.

When Amraphel turned, he was surprised to find Chedorlaomer in the room having watched it all.

“Why your vengeance for this Abram?” said Chedorlaomer.

“He brought down my kingdom,” said Amraphel.

“You are mad, Amraphel. I have never heard of this man, and I think I would have if he was powerful enough to take down the kingdom of Babel.”

Amraphel did not want to reveal all his secrets. “It is on our way back to Mesopotamia, your highness. It is a mere inconvenience.”

“No,” said Chedorlaomer. “I have had enough of our campaign. I am weary and my soldiers want to go home. I forbid it.”

Chedorlaomer left the room.

But Amraphel ran after him, spluttering.

“Wait, my lord!”

Chedorlaomer would not stop walking. He was done with this silliness.

“It is not my kingdom alone that is on the chopping block. It is your kingdom as well.”

“Spare me your desperate lies,” said Chedorlaomer.

“I am a liar, my lord. I am indeed. But I assure you, in this, I am not lying. There was a prophecy in the stars many years ago at the beginning of my kingdom that all my diviners and astrologers agreed upon in their interpretation, which as you know, is next to impossible with those half wits.”

Chedorlaomer kept walking, but his interest was piqued as he looked at Amraphel, who continued to splutter and cough his way through his argument with his damaged voice.

“The prophecy was that this Abram’s seed would slay great kings, possess their land, and inherit the earth.”

Now Chedorlaomer stopped to look into Amraphel’s bloodshot yellowing eyes. He could never tell with this sleazy serpentine figure what was true or false. But it was on the way, and if Amraphel was so bent on it, then let the crazy monster go after his phantom. Maybe he would be lucky and Amraphel would be killed trying.

“Granted,” said the king. “On one condition.”

“Name anything, my lord. Anything.”

“You take a bath and groom yourself. You are a despicable pig, and you reek like excrement.”

“Yes, my lord,” sniveled Amraphel, scratching his lice-ridden head. He did not think he smelled so bad. But he had better obey.

The king concluded, “Gather up the booty and captives from the cities. We leave for Mesopotamia by way of Bashan.”

Amraphel bowed his eight-foot frame to the floor, kissing Chedorlaomer’s boots. “Thank you, your majesty. Thank you. You will not regret this.”

“You had better hope not,” said the king, and he left Amraphel on the floor, still groveling.