The Blade of Gilgamesh. Jeff Edwards

      About the author

      Jeff Edwards lives in Penrith on the outskirts of Sydney, located on the bank of the Nepean River and at the foot of the beautiful Blue Mountains. Readers should not confuse this author with others of the same name who reside elsewhere.

      He and his family have developed strong community ties through their business and sporting activities.

      Both he and his wife Lyn are currently hold positions on the of the board of of the Nepean Rowing Club.

      The Blade of Gilgamesh is Jeff’s seventh novel and continues the storyline of Jade Green’s legacy.

      Jeff appreciates readers’ comments and he can be reached at: [email protected]

      Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

      ABN: 46 119 415 842

      23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley,

      Victoria, 3150, Australia

      Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920,

      Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742

      E-mail: [email protected]

      First published in Australia 2016

      This edition published 2017

      Copyright © Jeff Edwards 2017

      Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

      The right of Jeff Edwards to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

      This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      Edwards, Jeff

      The Blade of Gilgamesh

      ISBN: 9781925283907 (ebook)

      Acknowledgements

      ‘The Blade of Gilgamesh’ is a work of fiction, and I’d like to thank the historical characters who appear within these pages for their colourful lives. Also, a very special thanks to those worthy scribes who recorded the history of their day and allow us to relive their heroic tales. Without them all I would not have been able to weave this story.

      My wife Lyn, as always, helped in many small ways to

      make this work a reality, and I thank her.

      Barbara lvusic edited my work once again,

      and I thank her for her efforts .

      It goes without saying that a book requires readers, and I’d like to thank those readers who have contacted me and encouraged me to continue inhabiting my imagination. Writing it all down has been fun for me and I hope it is a worthwhile experience for you.

      1986

      At 2.00am local time on the 15th of April, 1986, a strike force of eighteen F-111F aircraft, together with numerous air support war-planes, launched a strike upon various targets within Libya.

      The raid, ordered by President Ronald Reagan, was in retaliation for the Libyan support of various extremist groups throughout the world who were carrying out terrorist attacks on innocent members of society.

      It was also intended to warn Libya that their efforts to become a nuclear power must be curtailed.

      The primary aim of the attack was to kill President Muammar Gaddafi, and while the raid was carried out with precision the bombers failed to achieve their goal.

      It was later determined that Italian Prime Minister Bettino Craxi had forewarned Gaddafi of the impending attack and this allowed Gaddafi and his family to escape moments before the bombers arrived.

      While the attack did not gain the immediate results Reagan planned, it did have far reaching consequences, and an outcome that few could envision.

      However, these actions did not herald the origins of our history. For the genesis of this story we must travel back to a place before words were written down and word of mouth gave rise to legends.

      Prehistory

      The woman slumped against the rocky outcrop, using it for support, before dropping to her knees in utter exhaustion amongst the thin covering of snow afforded in the boulder’s lee.

      Kront saw the woman’s sister kneel beside the collapsed figure and take a small bundle from his woman’s frozen arms. From his position at the head of the column of struggling figures, he raised his spear as a sign for the rest of the small clan to stop.

      The howling wind whipped the snow into a dense fog and stifled any real chance of conversation, so the scattered members of his tribe sought whatever shelter they could find from the blizzard and hunkered down in a vain effort to keep warm.

      Kront knelt beside his woman and noted with dismay the traces of blood in the snow. She had given birth two days before and it had been a drawn out and difficult affair made all the worse by the icy conditions and the clan’s lack of food.

      The ill woman’s sister was examining the small bundle.

      ‘The child is dead,’ she announced quietly, and Kront saw the look of utter defeat on the young mother’s face.

      Kront knew the clan could not remain exposed to the raging snow storm for any length of time. The top of the snow filled pass was up ahead and if they pushed on as quickly as they could his people would soon be dropping to lower levels where the drifts would be easier to traverse and the hope of finding food of any sort increased. If they remained where they were for any length of time then everyone would be at risk.

      As their leader, Kront was the person who must make the decision that would affect them all. With a grim look, he took the dead child from the young woman’s arms and placed the small bundle beside his woman. He then removed the small bag containing her last scraps of food from around her neck and untied her cloak of animal fur. These he handed to an adolescent member of the clan who sheltered close by.

      Without a backward glance at the condemned woman he made his way to the head of the small column and pointed his flint-tipped spear toward the head of the pass.

      The clan chief’s woman looked at her sister. ‘He is a good man. Be with him.’

      The younger woman nodded briefly as his clan fell in behind their leader leaving the woman shivering beside the rock. Her eyes closed as she resignedly awaited her fate.

      Kront had loved his woman and the birth of his son had filled him with joy, but it was now up to him to lead the rest of them to safety and to find food. If the price of achieving that objective was to be the loss of his woman and son then that was what the gods demanded.

      ***

      By the time the clan dropped below the snowline a second member of the clan had also been left behind.

      This unfortunate soul had been one of his brother’s children, a child of only three summers who had been sickly and weak since a heavy fall on an ice-covered river the previous winter. Unable to rouse him from a deathlike sleep, they had been forced to leave him beside the trail with only his toy knife carved lovingly from wood for company.

      Kront had expected the child to awaken and cry out in terror, but like his woman, the boy was too spent and his soul had already gone to the gods.

      ***

      Finally, the