The heavy wooden door to the inner chamber swung open and clunked against the solid stone wall. Azurad, his most trusted advisor, rushed into the room speaking quickly, his long mustache twitching with each syllable.

“Slow down, Azurad. Breathe. And tell me what has you so troubled.”

Azurad rested his hands on his knees, his purple tunic hanging down to the floor, which was thick with dust from a year of construction. He took a long slow breath through his nose, smelling the same earthy dust, stood straight and spoke. “My lord, Shem and his followers are approaching.”

The knots returned.

“Their number?”

“In the hundreds.”

Nimrod felt his chest tighten for a moment. Hundreds of men? It seemed an impossible number. He would be undone … if not for the giants now waking behind him. He couldn’t see them, but the widening eyes of his advisor revealed their animation.

“You … you would use them … to kill?”

“The gods of old are not bound by—”

“You will bring down his wrath!”

Nimrod stood quickly. “What did you say?” He stabbed an index finger upwards. “His wrath is empty in comparison to mine. His strength is as…” Something was wrong. Azurad’s face should have shown fear. But he was confused instead.

“Speak, what bothers you so?” Nimrod waited a moment. “Speak!”

And then he did. But Nimrod couldn’t understand a word the man uttered. The sounds of his words were like nothing Nimrod had ever heard before, clearly enunciated, but sharp and fluid at the same time.

Yet he did understand the advisor’s facial expressions. The fear he’d expected before came with a flush of red in the man’s face. Then he screamed and ran away.

A shadow flickering in the torchlight fell around Nimrod. It moved, but not because of the wavering flame. The motion belonged to something else. Nimrod sucked in a quick breath and held it. He had yet to issue his commands to the silent giants. They should have waited for his word before moving, their minds filled only with his bidding. He turned around slowly, his eyes landing on the stomach of the closest statue.

What are they doing? he thought, and then registered the movement above the statue’s head. Its clenched fists, each the size of a man’s skull, rose up above its lion’s head. Despite its face remaining as frozen as ever, he understood the intent behind its action.

For the first time in his life, Nimrod’s eyes filled with tears. The fists dropped. The statues surrounded him, reaching for his body like wild animals, and tore him limb from limb.

Shem stood behind them, watching, arms crossed over his chest. Nimrod never knew that others in his family had learned several of the ancient language’s secrets—secrets they would carry with them through the generations but never again fully entrust to a single man. Wielded by the double-edged sword that is the tongue of man, all of creation could be corrupted. Nimrod had shown him that much.