Joshua scanned the battlefield with relief. The Hebrews were gaining the upper hand. All around him, Midianites were either dying or fleeing. In the centre, Phinehas was driving a wedge through their ranks, moving ever closer towards the last two kings.
“Well done,” said Joshua, as he greeted Salman bloodied and breathless,
“They’re almost finished?” Salman asked.
“That’s when its most dangerous,” said Caleb, with his eyes fixed elsewhere. “Only the tough ones are left.”
“Good Lord!” Joshua interrupted, “it's a Nephraim!”
“A what?” asked Salman.
“Look behind you,” Caleb added. “The Nephraim are giants. What’s he doing this side of the river?”
“Coming our way,” said Joshua.
The three men took positions to defend Zebulan. Joshua knew it was now their courage would be tested. Everything else had been a rehearsal for this moment. Walking eight feet tall, with the weight of three men, the Nephraim stormed his way towards them.
“We strike him at once or not at all,” ordered Joshua. “Salman take the left. Caleb, the right. Now he’s strong, but not quick, and his eyes aren’t as sharp as ours.”
“How do you know?” asked Salman.
“I killed one at the tavern in Bethel.”
“Forty years ago,” Caleb added. “And he was a one armed drunk.”
“Spare him the details,” Joshua replied, “they only make it worse.”
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