Free Covenant of War by Cliff Graham Page A

come from a rogue.
    “Do you think there are other Philistines around besides the troop the boy mentioned?” Keth asked.
    “I haven’t seen any sign. But possible.”
    “Hope they haven’t been here before us.”
    The desert warlords and their tent camps were a small part of the Israelite population, but they were important. They rigorously trained their young men in combat discipline to fend off nomadic raiders like the Amalekites in the south or Syrian bandits in the north.
    What was most important to them was their livestock and their water; anything that threatened either was violently resisted. Unlike other warlords, they did not care about hoarding vast wealth or obtaining tracts of land. Such wealth would have been meaningless to them. Better to have a hundred head of cattle, fertile women, and a deep well than a bag of gold. They would have been a useful ally to the dead king Saul if he had stopped hunting David long enough to cultivate a relationship with them.
    They passed a line of tents and corrals, forming a small village. There were few people around — mostly women and children. Just before they reached the tattered flap that served as the entrance to the largest tent, which they assumed would be the council tent, Keth stopped. Benaiah turned to ask what was wrong, but Keth held up his hand.
    “They would have come out to us before now.”
    Benaiah felt his heart flutter, a sign of danger. Keth was right. Their fatigue from the long march had dulled their judgment.
    Keth stared at the tent flap hard. Benaiah, sharply alert now, searched the desolate surroundings nearby. The other tents of the warlord’s clan were a short distance away. Camels bayed their guttural noises, dogs yapped occasionally.
    Visitors to these camps were normally a great event worthy of everyone’s attention, for good or ill. The desert breeze stirred up swirls of dust and sand. Nothing seemed terribly amiss. All looked normal. Yet Keth did not move.
    “We should go,” he said quietly.
    Benaiah nodded. If Keth said it was not right, then it was not right. Benaiah started to turn away, reaching over his back to secure the strap he had begun to shrug off his shoulder in anticipation of dropping his weapons outside the tent. As he did, an arrow whistled through the air and slammed into his chest. He pitched backward from the force and thudded into the sand.
    Keth did not hesitate. He threw the javelin he had been carrying. It sailed through the opening of the tent.
    Benaiah gasped for breath, convinced that he had only moments to live. He snapped the shaft protruding from his chest. Pain finally registered, severe enough that he yelped like a wounded animal.
    “Philistines,” Keth grunted, grabbing Benaiah by the collar and dragging him across the sand. Benaiah lurched to his side and shoved Keth’s hand away. He prodded the arrow a moment; it had not gone deep into his flesh, slowed by the leather armor before striking his collar bone, but the hooked barbs were excruciating.
    “I’m good,” Benaiah coughed. The two warriors crouched behind a boulder just as another flurry of arrows thumped around them. Benaiah counted the number of arrow strikes as Keth readied his own bow.
    “Three archers. From the tent. They’re shooting together,” Keth said.
    “Why are they attacking us? They’re supposed to be our allies!”
    “I don’t know!”
    “Can you tell how many?”
    “No.”
    “Flank?”
    Benaiah glanced to his right, then his left, then watched as a helmet emerged from the narrow ravine between the tents that served as a waste dump. Another helmet popped up next to it, and two soldiers rushed across the sand toward them.
    “Left flank! Two!”
    Keth fixed the arrow, spun, and fired it in the same motion. The iron head pierced the leg of the closest man, who tripped and fell, screaming. His partner in the ambush, not expecting the warriors to be carrying a bow as well as heavy weaponry, leaped back into the