He turned to the priest:
"What is this?! What is that sound coming from Akkad?!"
Visibly unsettled, the royal counselor of Nimrod struggled to give form to the inexplicable, like one groping in darkness for a truth that eludes him. And, striving not to appear useless before the king, he said:
"My lord… it is a ram's horn, without doubt. It must contain some form of enchantment still unknown to us."
Nimrod narrowed his gaze.
"Gather your sages at once. I want that horn silenced."
The priest bowed in swift submission.
"Yes, my lord. It shall be done. And I shall also offer sacrifices to Cronos, so that they may instill the spirit of war into our men."
He withdrew, stumbling, like one who no longer knows whether he walks toward salvation or the abyss.
On the battlefield, some of Nimrod's soldiers already wavered in hesitation, but the sound of the trumpet—strange, supernatural, slicing through the air like an invisible blade—plunged them into panic. Many struck at empty space, as though fighting ghosts.
Meanwhile, the warriors of Akkad advanced.
And they struck down without effort.
Of Nimrod's fifty thousand warriors, only fragments of order remained, while roughly three hundred men of Akkad, sustained by an almost impossible resolve, broke through the enemy lines like a silent storm.
But war knows no stability.
As the battle dragged on, Salah began to succumb to exhaustion. The horn then ceased for a moment—and that silence was more terrifying than any cry.
The men of Nimrod noticed. And, as though awakening from a nightmare, they regrouped.
The balance of war shifted.
The first men of Akkad began to fall.
Salah, in his position, pressed his feet into the ground as though trying to keep the world itself from moving beneath him. And then he raised the horn again—a raw, ancestral call that drove his warriors forward once more, pushing the enemy back into confusion.
But there was another force in the battle.
The weapons.
Heavy steel against the bronze of Akkad.
And still, the sons of Akkad endured.
Until the Rephaim rose.
When the men of Nimrod realized that the horn had fallen silent again and that the Rephaim were reclaiming the line, their courage returned with renewed violence.
And then the tide turned.
The men of Akkad began to bleed in greater numbers.
Salah fought against his own limit, forcing breath after breath, sustaining the sound as one sustains destiny itself. And the field once again trembled under Akkad's advance.
But betrayal was already moving among them.
An Egyptian merchant who had lived there for only a few months watched everything with cold eyes. He understood the secret: the strength of the Akkadians came from that sound.
And then he moved like the shadow of a wicked thought.
He approached Salah from behind.
And drove a blade into him.
The old man fell to his knees—and still found the strength to bring down the traitor with a final blow. But when he tried to raise the horn again to his lips, he understood the impossible: his breath failed him.
Only a broken sound, short and useless, escaped the instrument.
The Akkadians rushed to his side, trying to lift the horn, trying to make it obey other hands.
But it did not respond.
It was as though the soul of the war had been taken from it.
Darkness advanced over Akkad.
And still, the Akkadians did not retreat.
They endured.
For two hours that felt eternal.
But the Rephaim, beneath their heavy iron armor, became an almost invincible force. One by one, the defenders of Akkad fell—until the last remained standing, dignified to the end, holding his bronze spear as blood ran down its shaft like a final banner.
Then silence fell.
And across the river that separated the armies, the cry of the victors rose.
Pity had been defeated.
And war was concluded.
Nimrod then marched to take the city.
Behind him followed the dark procession of victory—and among them, Salah, bound to a wooden beam, still alive but nearing his end, displayed like a trophy.
From Akkad, women, elders, and children emerged silently into the streets, unable to comprehend the fall of their hero. Mourning walked among them even before death arrived.
A man of noble standing, who had hidden during the battle, approached and threw himself at Nimrod's feet, begging for mercy while swearing absolute loyalty.
Upon hearing his voice, Salah raised his head with what little strength remained, but said nothing.
Nimrod ordered the man to rise. He obeyed.
"Look at me," the conqueror said.
The man looked at him, trembling.
"If today I have found loyalty in an Akkadian, then you shall lead me to the sacred tent of Shem."
Hope suddenly lit the man's face.
"With pleasure, my lord… follow me."
And he led him through an avenue of almond trees, where the light seemed filtered through an ancient veil.
At the center of a square stood the tent and sanctuary of Shem.
Nimrod entered alone.
And remained in silence.
No one dared follow.
When he reappeared, he called the Akkadian traitor.
And asked:
"Is this not the tent of Shem?"
"Yes, my lord… here we offer our oblations."
"Where is the sepulcher of Adam?"
The man hesitated. And then, as one inventing truth to survive, he replied:
"It is a mystery… revealed only to the one who bears the staff of Shem. It is here… but cannot be found."
Nimrod's gaze darkened.
And he left like a storm.
He walked toward Salah.
The earth seemed to yield beneath his steps.
"Deliver to me the relics of Adam," he said, "and I will spare your city."
Salah replied in a weak but steady voice:
"The relics of Adam belong to the sons of Shem. They are not yours, son of Cush."
Nimrod smiled.
"I am Nimrod, son of Bel. And all that is under the sun belongs to me."
Salah's silence was answer enough.
Nimrod began pacing in circles, like a caged beast.
Then the traitor whispered:
"He will not yield through force… but through faith."
And Nimrod's eyes shone.
"Bring wood," he ordered.
And to the soldiers:
"Bring the children of Akkad's nobility."
Five children were brought.
And the altar was prepared.
The air grew heavy.
When the father of one child recognized his daughter, the world seemed to break within him.
"My daughter… Adar!"
But the girl did not answer with tears. Only with silence.
And she was led to the altar.
The man threw himself at Nimrod's feet.
"My lord! She is my daughter!"
"You swore loyalty," Nimrod replied, cold as stone.
"But she…"
"In my kingdom," the king interrupted, "nobles offer their children as honor to the gods."
The priest raised the blade.
But before the blow could fall…
A stone cut through the air.
And crushed his skull.
The body collapsed lifeless.
All turned.
And saw Heber advancing down the street, sling still in hand, as though he carried not only a man—but judgment itself.