ONE

Benaiah the son of Jehoiada had never seen a snowstorm, and now he wished it had remained that way.

It never snowed in the south, Benaiah’s home. He had only heard legends of the freezing rain as a boy. Travelers from the east would speak of it when they stopped at his village to water their camels and replenish stores for the crossing to Egypt. They told of a powerful blanket of white that fell over the land and killed plants and livestock. At the time, he had yearned for it with a boy’s enthusiasm for the unknown. But, as with many of life’s youthful mysteries, it quickly lost appeal once he was in the thick of it.

Cold wind whipped across his face. Benaiah held his hands over his eyes, waiting for it to pass before continuing his climb. Snow covered the mountain trail and he was forced to pick his way among the ice-covered rocks.

In the south, the month of Aviv brought the land into full bloom under abundant sunshine. The barley would be ripening on the plains, signaling the approach of Passover and its reliably pleasant weather. But the tall mountain ridges of this northern country were crested with white, and the dreary gray sky promised more of it.

Crouching next to a large boulder, he adjusted his grip on the spear shaft and listened. The wind stirred up enough noise to prevent him from hearing around the bend ahead. He knew the creature could be hiding among the many boulders and clefts along the slope. He studied each one carefully for a flash of gold fur.

Frowning, he moved up the path again. They had said it was large. Three times the size of a man, maybe ten or eleven cubits— absurd, since no creature could be ten cubits. The village elders said the beast came late at night. Perhaps they were so afraid of it that every shadow in the torchlight became part of the lion.

Benaiah had hunted lions all of his life. He knew that it took only one kill for them to realize that man was easy prey. It was better to hunt them in groups, and since the other warriors in Benaiah’s band were marching north at the moment, he’d had to recruit two men from the village to come along. They were stout enough, and accustomed to harsh living on the frontier, but one of them was elderly and the other was very young.

Most of the men in the land who were of fighting ability and age were preparing for war in the north, gathering equipment and training ahead of a rumored Philistine invasion. The king had summoned them all, farmer and herder alike, leaving a shortage of men in the villages capable of defending their homes or engaging in heavy labor. Philistines tended to cause trouble in the days leading up to Passover because they knew that some of the Hebrews still observed it. Saul, the king of the Israelites, had been using Passover as the reason to build his army, claiming that their holy lands were being overrun by pagans during their holiest month. Although Saul’s true devotion to Passover was, at best, questionable, Benaiah thought as he crept his way up the path.

He had almost missed the village when he’d arrived that morning out of the forest. It was small and well away from the major trading routes, but the people took pride in their buildings. Family homes were surrounded by stone walls and built with sturdy mud brick roofs similar to the modern construction in the cities on the plains. There were buildings where farmers brought their supplies to work the reaping floor. Wheat would be harvested in another month or two, depending on the weather and the amount of runoff water that gathered in the valleys, and he saw reapers sharpening their flint blades for when the time came to trim the tops of the bundles.

Even though the olive harvest would not occur until much later in the season, men were already working on the village olive press. More than likely, it was the only one in the region and would see heavy use when the time came. A man was testing the beam press by filling baskets with rocks to simulate ripe olives. The beam extended over a notched stone that sat above a collection basin. The counterweights hanging from the lever would create enough pressure on the olives that an ample amount of oil would squeeze into the pan underneath.

Benaiah could tell that the small community was primarily a herding one. Since the time of shearing was just beginning, there were hundreds of sheep from the region being prepared. First, they were corralled into a series of pools where the shepherds would scrub them clean and then let them scamper out, bleating wildly, to dry out in the sun. The wool would be cleaned again after it was shorn and then stretched out in the sun to dry while it was raked. But that morning there was no sunshine, only the cold dreariness of early spring in this country, and the frustration of the shepherds had been evident as Benaiah passed them.

He paused to watch one shepherd struggling to hold down a thrashing, bleating sheep. The man struck it on the snout, but that had no effect. He struck it harder, and the sheep finally calmed down. With strength gained from years of chasing the stubborn and foolish creatures through the highlands, the shepherd pinned the sheep between his knees, tucked his robe back into his belt, and dunked the animal underwater. When it popped up again, he combed his fingers through the matted wool to clean it of mud, excrement, and dead insects.

When he was done, the man released the sheep. It charged through the water to find the herd, agitated but clean. The shepherd wiped his brow, noticed Benaiah watching him, and nodded warily. Benaiah returned the nod and continued walking.

Some of the workers he passed had paused from chiseling stones or preparing the harvest blades and were eating leben, the goat’s-milk dish curdled into porridge. Tough loaves of bread were dipped in vinegar and passed from man to man. A few threw handfuls of parched grain into their mouths to chew on while they worked.

Despite their labor and willingness to stay busy, fear was apparent everywhere he looked. Mothers shouted at children for going near the edge of town. Farmers and herders, nearly all of them past the age at which men ceased such work, had streamed past him, almost hiding behind their mules. Oxen, possibly sensing the presence of the terrible predators lurking nearby, refused to depart the village with their carts to return through the forest to the trade roads. Their owners beat them with reed sticks, but they would not be budged.

Benaiah was wearing a dark traveling cloak, and he imagined that he must have looked like a phantom emerging from the mist to the children watching from the rooftops. His bulky, muscled frame made his cloak billow out even more, an effect he intended. He swept his eyes back and forth while he walked, always searching his surroundings for threats. His black hair and beard had been trimmed short because it was the start of the campaign season, the time when kings could finally lead their armies to the field after being in garrison all winter while the soldiers tended their herds and took care of other home matters.

Benaiah had expected warmer weather, but at the last moment he had grabbed the heavier cloak, since it provided more comfort while he slept on the ground. Now, climbing through the snow, he was grateful for it. Under the cloak he wore a short battle tunic that came only halfway down his thighs and was laced, out of tradition, with a pattern of blue string on the fringe. When fighting, the short tunic was much preferable to the cloak. Too much loose material was a liability.

He carried a spear, a bow with arrows, a sword, and in his belt a dagger, all forged from iron, which had drawn no shortage of stares from the people in the village. Iron was rare, especially in weapons. Straps from the shield on his back hung over his shoulders.

Benaiah had approached the town’s common area near the well and knelt before the group of elders deep in discussion under an overhang nearby. He briefly told them who had sent him. When they asked why no more had come along, he informed them that his own army was marching north with the other soldiers in the land and he was all that could be spared.

The elders insisted that he take more men with him in search of the lion, but Benaiah resisted, insisting that too many would make noise and alert the creature. One of the elders, Jairas, wanted to come, and Benaiah consented, believing it would be good for the morale of the town to see one of their own come along. A young man named Haratha, one of the few physically strong men left in the village, demonstrated that he could sling proficiently, and Benaiah allowed him to come as well.

Benaiah handed Jairas his sickle sword. The man’s momentary puzzlement showed that this was a different design from the swords Jairas had seen before, with a longer tip and less curvature — and it was iron. Several of the veterans among the elders wanted to question Benaiah about it, but he just shook his head. They had no time.

Benaiah kept the spear and bow and fastened his shield to his back. He gave Haratha a pouch of heavy copper pellets and told him to sling them at the animal’s head to distract it after Benaiah shot the first arrow, giving Benaiah time to release another. Once the creature was wounded, it would likely charge, and Benaiah told them that he would take the charge with his spear while Haratha got a safe distance away and Jairas stabbed the sword into the hide between the ribs.

The animal had already killed several people, including a small boy who had wandered off by himself into the forest to find consolation when his siblings tormented him. The grief-stricken family had been standing nearby when Benaiah and the elders were talking, their clothes torn in mourning, their faces downcast. The body had not been found and likely would not. There would be no burial ceremony. No closure. Benaiah had tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, the black memories in his mind.

Several hours had passed now since the three of them had climbed out of town on a game trail, following the faint spoor. Somewhere lower on the rocky slopes, they had crossed the snow line. What was simply a cold rain in the lower valleys was falling as snow on the high ridges, accumulating on the ground and making the spoor difficult to follow and progress on the hunt slow.

The sun peeked through the gray sky occasionally, only to be quickly shrouded again in the blanket of snow clouds. Benaiah kept the men moving, fearing they would lose their courage if too much rest was given. Even though they kept to a moderate pace, sweat was dampening their clothing anyway, bringing with it the danger of freezing to death. The icy terrain was hardest on Jairas, who struggled to keep up.

The lion was following the trail cut through the pass by the people in the village to reach the higher grazing grounds. Benaiah assumed that, with the late spring snowstorms, the animal had descended to search for food in the valleys.

Benaiah studied the spoor, glanced up and down the valley, and nodded to himself. The lion must have followed the scent of the sheep, encountered the first victim in the forest, and killed him out of fright. Then, because it had been an easy kill and the flesh was sweet and tender, the lion had decided to stay near the village and take more people, most recently the boy from the night before.

The approach Benaiah was taking was the worst possible way to hunt the deadliest animal alive. He had hunted them since childhood — but on organized hunts, with many skilled men working together. Were it not for his hurry to finish this mission and get back to his men currently marching north, he would have taken a day or two to prepare. But the chief had made it clear: get there, kill the lion, establish our goodwill, and get back fast.

They stopped to rest at the top of a steep climb in the trail. To their left was the dense forest of the upper mountain, growing darker in the gray late afternoon. On their right, the slope fell sharply before leveling out just before the forest near the village far below on the valley floor. Somewhere in the distance he heard water running and guessed there was a stream flowing under the blanket of snow.

“Lions are territorial and don’t stray far from their hunting grounds,” Benaiah whispered to the other two.

“I assume we are the bait,” said Jairas quietly.

Benaiah nodded. They resumed their climb.

Most of the afternoon slipped away. The higher they climbed, the colder the air turned. Jairas and Haratha were huffing for breath, and Benaiah began to wonder how much longer they could hold out, especially considering what awaited them among the rocks of the mountains.

The trail led toward more snow-covered rocky outcroppings. The day would be ending soon. Benaiah debated with himself: Abandon the pursuit? Return tomorrow? He strained to hear any birds or hyraxes squealing a warning. He kicked the path every few steps and checked the swirl of powdery light snow to confirm the wind direction.

Just then, around the curve of the path ahead, he heard the sound of dogs bellowing. He had seen dogs in the company of several merchants he had passed on the road to town. The dogs must have scented the lion and chased it themselves.

Senses fully alert, the group trotted carefully forward. As they rounded an outcropping of stone, the saddle between the hills came into view. Across a small cleft in the hillside, crouched against a rock in front of the yowling dogs, was the cornered lion.

Its hide was a dusty yellow and matted with gore from a recent kill. Black tufts of hair formed its mane, dotting the area around its head and shoulders. Its muscles coiled and snapped with fearsome power. The roar was now constant, and so loud that it seemed as though the mountainside shook with each echo. The elder had been right about its size — it was the largest lion Benaiah had ever seen.

One of the dogs noticed them and turned. The lion snarled and swung a paw, knocking it senseless. The other dogs howled and nipped at its hindquarters. Though heavily outmatched, they were bravely staying with it.

Benaiah yanked an arrow from the quiver. They closed to within fifty cubits of the lion, watching it strike another dog with its paw, killing it instantly. Steam rushed from its mouth as it roared again.

Benaiah saw Haratha halt in terror.

“Keep moving! We have to get closer!” Benaiah called.

Haratha bobbled his sling, dropping the copper pellet. He glanced up at the lion, his eyes wide with fright.

The lion lowered its head and flattened its ears, signaling a charge. It roared again.

Within arrow range now, Benaiah lifted his bow up and pulled the notched end of the arrow to his mouth. The motion was so familiar that he had the lion within his sights instantly.

The lion struck the last of the dogs down, then sprang from its crouch toward the terrified Haratha. Benaiah’s foot slipped on the snow and he lost his target. He yelled again for Haratha to release while he struggled to stand again.

Before the creature reached him, Haratha managed to launch a copper pellet that miraculously hit the charging animal in the head. A spurt of red mist erupted from the lion’s face. It snarled and paused briefly to paw at its head where the pellet had struck it in or near the eye. By that time Benaiah had regained his balance and sent an arrow into its hide.

The lion winced at the arrow but leaped again, struck Haratha, and tumbled with him across the slope. The lion slashed and snarled, but abandoned Haratha and sprang up the slope toward Benaiah.

Benaiah felt his muscles tense. The animal moved faster than he’d thought it could on the snow, but he was ready. The arrow he sent would have caught the creature in the throat if it hadn’t slipped on an icy rock and stumbled.

That was all he had time to do before, with a flash of golden fur and the hot stench of rotting flesh from the animal’s jaws, he felt the animal’s crushing weight and infinite strength, and then he was rolling, smashed against the frozen ground, his face grinding against the icy pebbles as the monster roared in his ear.

Benaiah managed to stop by shoving his hand into a snow bank and digging his fingers all the way to the ground. He winced, waiting for the next strike, but the lion had turned away from him, lowering its head and flattening its ears. Then it charged back toward Haratha—but Jairas had stepped between them, sword in hand.

Benaiah regained his footing and rushed forward, searching for his fallen spear in the snow since another shot with an arrow would risk hitting one of the others. Benaiah shouted for Jairas to stab instead of swing, but in his panic to save Haratha, Jairas could not hear him and hacked away harmlessly at the animal’s neck. The lion ignored his blows, attacking instead the one who’d ruined its eye.

Haratha screamed, the lion roared, and just as Benaiah reached the spear, the lion’s claws sank into Haratha’s thighs and it threw itself on top of him. Benaiah snatched the spear out of the snow and lunged toward the fight.

The lion had stretched its jaws wide enough that it looked as if it was about to swallow Haratha’s head. A hard bite with those fangs would burst through the boy’s skull, killing him instantly.

Benaiah shifted his grip and aimed the spear thrust at the lion’s head instead of its flank. The spearhead impaled the muscles on the lion’s jaws as it bit Haratha. The fangs slashed into Haratha’s scalp, spraying a wave of blood onto the snow, but the bite from its wounded jaw lacked enough force to penetrate.

Snarling and shrieking, the lion twisted away and released the boy. Benaiah snatched Haratha by the collar and jerked him backward, away from the lion.

Roaring, the animal pawed at the shaft of the spear lodged firmly in its jaw. Benaiah shrugged the shield straps off his back in order to move better and dove for the spear handle, landing on top of it, ripping it back out of the lion’s face.

Jairas appeared again, still trying to hack at the animal’s hide. This time his aim went true, and he slid the tip of the sword into the lion’s flank. Benaiah hauled the spear up and shoved it into the bloody fur. It stopped against bone. He pulled it back and shoved it again, this time finding the soft underbelly in front of the rear leg.

The lion spun in a circle, knocking Jairas over and pulling Benaiah back to the ground. Benaiah clung to the shaft as the lion tried to run away. The spearhead was now lodged in the rib cage — a killing blow, if Benaiah could hold on long enough.

The lion turned and lashed out with its paw once more. Benaiah dodged it, yelling curses and pushing the spear as hard as he could. Every muscle in his arms burned with exhaustion.

The animal snarled and slipped onto its side. It tried to stand again but couldn’t. A leg kicked several times as a spurt of dark blood erupted from the spear wound in its flank. It lashed at them again, weaker. It coughed blood from its lungs, along with the coppery smell of rotting flesh and blood. With a final swipe of its paw, it bit at the rocks and the earth before lying still.

Benaiah let his face fall into the snow and released the spear shaft. The ice felt good against his eyelids. His face started to go numb against the snow, and he wished he could make that numbness permeate the rest of his body.

He took several deep breaths, then stood and walked to the lion’s head. He prodded the remaining eye with his foot to ensure that it was dead. No response. Benaiah had once walked away from a kill only to be attacked from behind. He believed that these creatures were capable of hate. Satisfied that this one was dead, he looked around for his companions.

Jairas was fumbling with a water pouch next to the still form of Haratha, trying to work the frantic energy out of his hands. Benaiah knelt next to them and put his finger on the boy’s neck. Haratha’s eyes blinked open when Benaiah touched him.

Haratha’s scalp was ripped into divots from the fangs, and blood poured from the tears in his thigh. His chest was sliced into ribbons of skin, exposing the bones of the rib cage. The dull, white gleam of his exposed skull was slowly becoming soaked with blood. Haratha clenched his jaw stoically.

“You come from hard Judah stock,” Benaiah encouraged him.

Haratha smiled weakly.

“I will carry him,” Benaiah said to Jairas, pulling out strips of cloth to bind the wound. “You carry my weapons. We only have an hour or so before he bleeds out.”

Benaiah pulled a vial of olive oil from his pouch and poured it into Haratha’s cuts while the icy wind bit at them. He emptied salt into the cuts as well, causing Haratha to swoon from pain and shock. Benaiah slapped his face.

Jairas held Haratha down while Benaiah wrapped the largest wounds with bandage cloth. He tightened a knot with a stick to cease the flow of blood, which was spurting gently onto the snow and forming a scarlet pool. Finally Benaiah sat back, exhausted, and watched Haratha’s blood fill the snow. He felt the cold numbing his mind and slowing his thoughts.

“You have wounds as well,” Jairas said.

Benaiah examined his arm, then felt his shoulders. “Not deep. I will wash them out. But not now. The boy will die if we don’t hurry.”

“Your bow and arrows?” Jairas said, nodding to a spot nearby. The bow’s string had snapped when the lion pounced, along with the shafts of all of the arrows in the quiver.

Benaiah cursed. The bow was among the prizes of his weaponry, brilliantly made from something called bamboo wood by a master craftsman from lands far to the east. It had cost him a tremendous amount of gold and considerable haggling with the wily merchant. His fellow warriors, especially the archers, could barely disguise their envy. He was relieved that the bow itself had not broken, but it would take him awhile to string it properly again, and he certainly did not want to do it in cold weather.

Benaiah raked his fingers through his beard, then pulled the collar of his tunic away from his neck, a nervous habit he had picked up and could not shake. After a count, he hoisted the boy onto his shoulders.

“We are only an hour’s walk above the village if we cut straight down from here,” Jairas said. “It would be rougher going but a much shorter journey.”

Benaiah nodded.

Snow was falling steadily now, filling the barren spaces on the ground that the previous storm had missed. After a few moments of stumbling, they started to make good progress. Benaiah became hopeful that they would make it down from the pass before the storm settled in and made travel impossible.

He had just begun to relax his breathing and find a rhythm in his steps when another lion attacked.

The animal had been lying in wait in a small thicket on the slope. The hot roar blew across Benaiah’s face as the paws, with immense force, struck his head. He dropped Haratha and threw his arms in front of the lion’s jaws, his throat scratching out a cry and his legs giving way. The power was overwhelming. He could see nothing but golden fur, feel nothing but the lion’s crushing strength.

Like the other lion, this one wrapped him up with its paws and was trying to bite his neck. Heat and steam from the lion’s breath covered him. The lion’s screams made him dizzy as he fought— although all he could do was roll his body to the side, away from Haratha. Benaiah felt like vomiting as the rancid breath closed around his face.

They rolled several times down the mountainside, one of Benaiah’s arms pinned to his side by the lion’s weight and strength. Benaiah wrenched away from the jaws as they snapped for his neck. A fang caught his scalp and he felt hot, blinding pain.

The ground gave way on one side, and he sensed that they were struggling on the edge of a drop-off of some kind, either a cliff or a pit. Something erupted in his strength, his right arm slipped out of the lion’s grip, and he shoved the creature as hard as he could while stabbing its eye with his thumb. It released its grip, slipped on the loose, icy rocks, and tumbled backward into a pit. The animal landed with a thump on the bottom.

Benaiah wiped blood from his forehead where the claws had gashed him and staggered back up the slope. He had to find a weapon quickly. The lion might leap out of the pit at any moment and resume the attack. The wounds in his skin burned like coals; he was losing a lot of blood.

The commotion had revived Haratha, who was now sitting up and insisting to Jairas that he could walk. The older man argued that the boy would further damage his body if he did not remain still.

“No, take advantage of his strength,” Benaiah said to Jairas. “Let him walk with you back down the mountain. You need to get him back quickly, and it will take too long if you drag him. I will climb into the pit and get the lion.”

“Don’t be a fool. It will tear you apart.”

Benaiah ignored him and knelt by Haratha.

“Let me stay with you,” said Haratha. He still looked dazed, the loss of blood turning his skin as pale as the snow around them. Benaiah had seen these erratic bursts of energy from wounded men before. He would become delirious soon.

“Who is your father?” Benaiah asked.

“Eleb.”

“Haratha son of Eleb, you fought well today. You will return to your woman if you can manage to stay awake.”

“I … have no woman. I am trying, though.”

They all laughed and Benaiah clapped him on his good shoulder. He helped Haratha to his feet and the young man leaned against Jairas for support.

Roars erupted from the pit behind them. They could hear thudding and crashing as smaller rocks cascaded. Benaiah considered going back down to the village with Jairas and Haratha. Losing a man to the jaws of a lion was the last thing David’s little army needed right now; every one of them would make a difference in the coming days.

But the faces of the dead boy’s parents in the village appeared in Benaiah’s mind. The familiar pit in his gut gnawed at him, and he knew he had to make sure this lion would die. If it escaped, it would surely return to terrorize the village. They were relentless when they had developed a taste for man.

He swore under his breath.

“Get moving. I’ll catch up,” Benaiah said, sliding the back straps of his shield off. “You are certain?”

“You need to get him back. His family will need him.” “Perhaps it will die down there. It has not come out. It might be trapped.”

“It might escape, and it will not relent if it does. Just get him back to the village.”

Jairas looked at him a moment longer, then nodded.

Benaiah watched them disappear down the slope into the forest. He felt the sudden urge to say something else. He shouted toward them as the wind picked up.

“I have a woman. Tell her …” But they kept walking without turning. He assumed they could not hear him over the noise of the storm. He let it go.

The clouds swirled and increased, grappling along the ridges above and tossing more and more snow onto the slopes. The weather in this high country was unnerving. And it was getting colder. He had heard of men dying from the sleep brought by cold weather.

Relief, he thought. The best way to go. Slip softly into Sheol, the faces gone at last, the pain dulled by the cold darkness.

More roars came from the pit, more pebbles scraped loose. He expected to see the black-maned monster tear out of the hole and race toward him. He clenched his teeth.

His death would not come from sleep.

Benaiah picked up his spear and walked to where an old tree was lying on its side, roots hardened by age jutting into the air. Finding a good root with a sharp end and a twist in the center to grip, Benaiah pulled down with all of his weight and broke it away from the tree. In the old days, roots such as this one were among the only weapons his people could muster. It would work well against the creature.

Benaiah checked the dagger on his belt, then discovered with dismay that his water pouch had been torn apart by the lion’s claws. It had protected the flesh on his side, but now he was left with nothing to drink. He scooped up a handful of snow and tried to quench his thirst with it.

He reached the edge of the pit and peered down. It was a hunting pit, clearly dug many years before, probably by ancient hunters who had enlarged a natural cave in the hillside. Eight or nine cubits across, about the same depth. Normally hunting pits would be covered with brushwood and approaches dug so that a group of hunters could drive the lion toward a narrow cleft where the pit’s covering would give way, trapping the animal. The hunters would then rain arrows on it until the animal died.

But Benaiah had none of those luxuries.

He could see the lion pacing in the corner, occasionally crossing a patch of snow that had drifted in. It huffed air in great plumes of breath, roaring and gasping in the low-pitched rumble that could be heard for an entire day’s walk away. Especially at night, he remembered, when the still desert breeze brought the sound through the Nile reeds.

Benaiah tossed the root into the pit below. The lion snarled and drew back into the darkness, waiting for him. He would leap from the edge, land with the spear raised, and pin the lion as fast as possible. Once the spearhead was buried to the heart, he would grab the root and stab its neck. Then the people in the village would never perish in its jaws again.

Benaiah himself might be the lion’s last kill.

He closed his eyes, pushing the thought from his mind, feeling the prickle of snow on his face. His hands clenched and unclenched. The last of the gray twilight faded. The beast roared, and Benaiah felt it watching him, waiting for him, amber eyes boring into him and craving the taste of his flesh.

This had to be done.

He nodded.

He would be free. She would be free of him.

Benaiah shook his head, trying to focus on the lion and how he would kill it, on what type of maneuver might, against all odds, keep him alive, but the black depths of the pit reminded him of a room he’d known, of the day of sorrow. That day came back to him — the day all was lost.

There was darkness, endless darkness, and screaming, and the smell of blood. Blood covering the doorway, blood in the room, bits of hair across the stone floor. He heard the sound of families throughout the town wailing and moaning in grief, the smell of smoke drifting, cries to Yahweh. A raid. How could he have allowed this?

Benaiah looked for Sherizah, called for her. There she was, his wife, in the corner, her hands over her eyes, her cries filled with anguish. He shook her. What happened? What happened? She shook uncontrollably. Blood was everywhere, the room cold and dark.

Where are they? Where are they? he’d yelled at her.

Gone. Killed. They are gone …

And he was away. He was away …

Benaiah blinked.

He was above the pit, in the snow, with the lion.

The wet on the edge of his eyes stung in the cold. He wiped them quickly. The black pit gaped in front of him. He felt its darkness in his bones. He squeezed his fists and felt his hands shaking again. He pulled absently at his collar with his thumb.

There was something the chief always said.

Cover me in the day of war.

He shook his head.

Benaiah breathed a few more times, enjoying the snow and the rage of the storm gripping the pass above him. Then he leaped over the side.