This was not good, he thought, as Astarte's whip snapped at him, and then their father's mace again was flying- this time caught him in the shoulder, across the still weeping wound from the embedded arrowhead.

This is not a fight I can win, he realized, even as he fell into a table and chairs. The white linen of his skirt was already stained with blood, but the rather hoped he could avoid getting blood everywhere else.

"Women are such weak creatures," he said, even as he moved to avoid another hit from Ninurta's mace. The problem, he realized, was there were too many people to watch out for in this.