HEROES OF THE FALLEN
Saga of the Fallen: Book One
David J. West
Heroes Of The Fallen Copyright 2019 David J. West
Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside
Interior illustrations by Mathias West
Cover by J Caleb Design
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Some names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously others are historical and used for entertainments sake. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
LOST REALMS PRESS
For my Children
Table of Contents
Swords of the Judge
Like A Wild Bird
Red Right Hand
Road of Destiny
Blood Is Blood
Wolves and Jackals
A Dark Fallen Star
Call of Duty
Does He See Me
The Bride of Darkness
Travelers on the Road of Fate
Seeds of Evil
I Am Apophis
Sweet Like Honey
What Happened in Hagoth’s Landing
An Axe for The King
The Voice of Lilith
The Dust of His Feet
Through a Rent Veil
Choose Ye This Day
Unwanted Advice
The Rewards of Service
In A Dark Place
Games of Death
Remembering Spirits of The Past
On the Night of Great Fear
A Devil If I Ever Saw One
Open Your Eyes
Tower of Strength
Marchers of Doom
The Coward’s Bravery
Tongues of Fire
The Vision Serpent
Pale Stranger
A Grim Road
The Baptismal Undertow
To Dream a Fiery Dream
Prayers, Oaths and Curses
Finding the Higher Ground
Tenth Man Down
Last of the Wilds
Glossary and Dramatis Personae
About the Author:
When the gods wish to punish wicked men for their crimes, they allow them for a time a more than usual prosperity and an even longer impunity, so that they will suffer all the more bitterly when their fortunes are reversed.
— Gallic War Commentaries: Julius Caesar
All is not lost—the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield.
— Paradise Lost, Book One 106-108: John Milton
What was forgotten will soon be remembered.
— Book of War, Plate 153: Nephite soldier’s maxim
Swords of the Judge
321 A. D.
Like a hawk spies its prey, Amaron saw his quarry and swooped in.
It had taken time to find their man. The enormous bazaar stretched on for miles in ever connecting, tight-knit, dirty circles. There were all manner of wares. But with senses awake, Amaron could see and smell through the tantalizing scents of salted meats, fragrant incense, and even the perfumes of a dozen dancing girls, finally to the stench of the open-air market where the garbage and filth went uncollected for days on end. He could see beyond the many succulent fruits and shiny trinkets; all meant to dazzle the eye, fill the stomach, cloud the heart, and line a pocket.
“Watch and pray,” said Amaron, under his breath. He made sure the sword was loose in his sheath as he strode through the market.
This was Zarahemla, the white city of peace and light, jewel in the crown of the Nephite confederation. Dazzling sounds filled the air, and sweet-smelling baked goods were arrayed to tempt passersby. Every trade imaginable had something represented here, but Amaron and his companion Helam were looking for only one thing.
When the red-capped little man saw them, he stopped mid-bite with his apple. The two large city guardsmen strode toward him with inexorable purpose, the people of the market parting before them like the waters of the Red Sea for Moses.
“Ho, Ezra,” called Helam, sounding friendly while Amaron glared.
“You will sing a song to the chief judge. Come with us,” said Amaron, cracking his scarred knuckles.
The thin little man’s eyes widened in surprise. He nodded somberly and made as if to comply with their request for a moment but then abruptly spun on his heel and ran. Quick as a cat with its tail aflame, he ducked through the canopied shops, hidden almost instantly by the throng of merchants and bartering customers. Thousands of people bought and sold here daily.
“Baal’s devils!” cursed Amaron. “Now we have to chase him.”
“Watch your tongue. Which way did he go?” asked Helam.
“He was eating an apple with his right hand; likely he ran to the right down the Avenue of the Ram.”
They were young stout men of the guard. Helam was blond and fair-skinned; Amaron dark of hair, his skin bronzed by the sun enough for him to almost be mistaken for a copper-toned Lamanite, the people of the south-land's and the sworn Nephite enemies. That Amaron preferred to wear buckskins instead of fine silks and colorful cottons did not help in differentiating him from his country-men’s enemies. Nephites prided themselves on exotic finery to denote status in their highly class-conscious society.
Amaron’s fierce eyes pierced the crowded street hunting for the red-capped man. He saw sturdy, mountain people from the Hermounts wilderness with furs and coal to sell, side by side with Phoenicians from across the far eastern sea come to trade fine cloth for copper. Deep-tanned Zoramites armed with abalone shells and sharks’ teeth bartered with dusky traders from the far southwest who had carried with them turquoise, obsidian, and gold. Amaron’s gaze burned a path through all these merchants and buyers who cleared out of the way of the hulking guardsmen.
The guardsmen wore their hair long, as had their captain and teacher, Lachoneus. Captain Lachoneus was a descendant of Mulekites, people that had crossed the great ocean called Irreantum, ages past. Lachoneus could trace his line back to the Spartan mercenaries who had served King Zedekiah and, according to the oral legend, had saved the little king Mulek from the Babylonian wrath. Only Mulek and his sisters, Tamar and Scota, had escaped the brutal end of the royal line. But that is a tale for another time.
“I see him,” growled Amaron, charging toward the skinny man. He signaled Helam to flank their prey by taking a side street.
Ezra, the pursued, ran headlong into a woman with a cart selling fruit. It tumbled, sending her ripe product to the ground.
“Watch where you are going, vermin,” she spat after him. He scrambled up and darted away down another avenue.
The meat market of Zarahemla, the Avenue of the Ram, was the perfect place for Ezra to elude his pursuers. A large stack of turkeys and other fowl in crates would block him for a moment, allowing him to disappear down another path. He took a side street to the right, then left, then right again down a narrow alley. The red cap flew from his head and hit the ground. Behind him on the busy market street, people shouted at his pursuers.
“Hey, leave him be!” yelled a turkey merchant.
Amaron scanne
d the avenue. The skinny little man was hiding hid somewhere in the alley. Crouching, he picked up the red cap and swore he could hear the man’s ragged breathing despite the city’s noise. The sound of breathing stopped, and Amaron knew that the little man held his breath, likely praying to Bel, the god of thieves, for escape.
Sending Helam down the adjacent avenue, Amaron came down the alley toward the suspected hiding spot. He sensed the little man’s eyes watching him.
Some debris rustled.
Amaron drew his infamous sword, Ramevorn, “High Holy Steel” in the reformed Egyptian language of Nephites. Forged of meteoric iron it had once belonged to his great, great grandfather, Teancum. It was second in fame only to the Sword of Laban, now lost.
Ezra jumped to his feet from behind a pile of rancid garbage, ten steps from Amaron, and ran down the alley. He knocked some empty barrels and other garbage into the path behind him. He ducked down another alley.
“A dead end, this I don’t need, eah,” panted Ezra. He turned around, limbs taut, ready to flee again, but Amaron blocked his way, bared sword glinting in the sunlight.
“On the ground, in the name of the chief judge,” snapped Amaron. “Or I’ll split your skull!”
“I've done nothing wrong,” pleaded Ezra.
“Shut your mouth. Do not speak, dog,” came the brutal response, as he threw the red cap into Ezra's face.
“Have you no mercy?” asked Ezra, tucking the cap into his waistband.
“Hands behind your back!” said Amaron.
Ezra did as he was told while the muscular giant bound his hands tight.
Helam appeared, much to Amaron’s relief. He worried they might have been led into a trap. With their man in custody, they must get him back to the Judgment Hall without incident. Amaron watched the rooftops with a knowing eye. Though he had sheathed his sword, he stayed alert, ready to draw and fight.
“Maybe now we can find out where more are hiding,” said Helam.
“I hope so. Move it, scum!” Amaron said, kicking Ezra to move down the alley.
They took a variety of random routes through back alleys and side streets until they came to the wide Avenue of the Eagle. This led from the south gate straight to the grounds of the Judgment Hall.
It was a magnificent building, with a wall over twelve feet tall surrounding the grounds. A squared tower of stone rose up from the hall, and from this tower, one could overlook the entire city and the wide Sidon River basin. The entire complex, except for the stone tower, was made of wood stuccoed with plaster made from crushed shells. The whole of the structure was painted a gleaming white. Every few years a new layer of whitewash was added. Rumor was that there was a temple of the ancients hidden somewhere within its walls.
A pair of guards in gleaming copper armor parted to let Amaron and Helam in with their prisoner. They passed through a long, open walkway to a veranda with fruit trees along one side and freshly plowed fields on the other. A fountain splashed in front of them, with the doorways to the courtrooms just beyond. They stopped before the field and a man plowing spotted them and halted his ox. He wore a plain white, long sleeved tunic. His hair was just beginning to gray at his temples and at the corners of his well-trimmed beard.
“Who’s that, eh?” asked Ezra.
“Who do you think?” Amaron smacked Ezra with the back of his hand.
“Ow. Then why does he plow the fields?”
Before Amaron could strike him again, the man, now within earshot, responded, “So that I am not a burden to my people. I am Chief Judge Onandagus, and this is my home, but I work the same as any honest man.” Amaron tossed Onandagus the red cap. Catching it, he continued, “Unlike you, Gadianton.”
Ezra shrunk at the mention of his secret brotherhood, those considered robbers or worse by Nephite society.
“Now Ezra, I know you are a Gadianton apprentice. There is no point denying it. I know what atrocities you commit in your secret oaths and combinations, and for that alone I could have you hung.” Onandagus pointed toward the gallows with the crumpled red cap.
The wooden scaffolding lay bleaching in the noonday sun. Amaron made a soft, ghastly sound behind Ezra, like the sound of a man choking. Ezra looked over his shoulder at Amaron, who made a slicing motion across his neck.
“What do you want with me then?” he stammered to Onandagus, breathing out with a curious gasp of “Eah.”
“I have come to understand that your Gadianton Grand Master is planning something. I want you to tell me all you know of it. And Ezra,” he said, as he put his hand on the little man’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. “I will know if you are lying.”
“How could you know that? Eah,” he ended his speech again with the odd exhale.
“With these.” Onandagus pulled out two smooth, egg-shaped stones, one light and one dark.
“Interpreters! Eah,” gasped Ezra. “I thought the magical stones were only a legend.”
“They are real and work for those that know how to utilize them.”
“But if I tell what I know I’ll be dead. I swore on the Throne of Heaven never to divulge the secrets of the Brotherhood or my blood would be spilt, and the demons of nightmare will claim my soul. All brothers take the same vows to slay any who would divulge secrets. There is a whole division established just to ritually kill.” He shook his head ruefully, continuing, “I’m sorry, but any judgment or sentence from you would be far easier to bear than theirs. Eah.”
Onandagus looked him over a moment before answering. “Do you own the Throne of Heaven and have any right to swear upon something you have not? No, you do not. As chief judge I will protect you. Your oath to the order of Gadiantons is forfeit, no one will ever be allowed to use it against you. Now tell me what you know.”
Ezra sniffed. “If only they would honor your word, eah. But they won’t, they will take my life if I say anything.” Ezra strained at the ropes which bound him.
“I will find a place of safety for you if you cooperate with us. You have my word on it.”
Ezra looked dubious and gestured for his hands to be loosed.
Onandagus nodded at Amaron, who slashed the bindings.
Onandagus clasped Ezra’s hand. He was well into middle age, but his grip was strong as a bear. “It’s not too late to change the road you are on.”
“I don’t know much. But with your solemn word I suppose I will talk, but here in the open?” Ezra looked at the shadowy doorways off to their right, leading to the courtrooms within this half of the judgment hall. His young eyes widened with fear.
“He is right to worry. Let us go to my chambers and discuss this in private,” said Onandagus. He led the way, with Amaron close beside Ezra and Helam looking behind to see if anyone followed or watched.
As they went further down the veranda to the hall’s offices, a tall, gray-bearded man with a sour face accosted them. His black judge’s robe had a fine trim of purple silk. A large green stone of the Guild of Judges hung about his neck—the jade amulet a symbol of the judges since the days of Egypt. Onandagus and a few others were the only ones who did not wear the costly ornament. The man had a large pipe on which he puffed regularly, fashioned to look like a bird of prey reclining upon its back. A conical, narrow-brimmed black hat shielded his pale drawn face from the sun.
“Ah, Chief Judge Onandagus, done with your fields already?” he said arrogantly.
Ezra quivered. “Eah,” he mumbled. Amaron tightened his grip on the skinny man.
“Judge Hiram, I have a matter to attend to, if you will excuse us,” said Onandagus.
Judge Hiram, grim and contemptuous, was not so easily dissuaded. “Who is this man the guards have detained so vigorously? A thief, I surmise?”
“It is not a case that need concern you.”
“You are not taking the law into your own hands again, are you? Why is this man not going before Judge Joshua? It is his time to hear cases now.”
“As I said, this is not a case that need concern you. Thi
s man has not yet been brought up on any charges,” said Onandagus, his voice rising.
“Then why is he held tight by your pet thug? If you insist on continuing your vigilante-style justice, I will have your seat!” Judge Hiram tipped his pipe’s ash upon the ground. “This man deserves a lawyer. If one cannot be found immediately I will represent him. Ezra, is it? What are they trying to charge you with anyway? To be so secretive it must be spurious and self-righteous. Did you forget to mock a priest or observe the Sabbath?” laughed Hiram.
At the mention of Ezra’s yet unspoken name, Amaron shot an exaggerated eyebrow at Helam. Doing his best to keep his temper under control, he said, “Judge Hiram, this man is not being brought up on charges. He was detained for his own safety. Public insanity.” Grinning, he continued, “He needs help.”
“If that is truly the case, I can help him,” he snapped. Then more calmly, he said, “Give him to me. My doctors can work wonders on him.”
“No, eah,” murmured Ezra, so soft that only Amaron heard him. “Uh, I am feeling fine now. Let me go, I am feeling much better. Thank you, but please let me go now.”
“Well?” said Hiram, looking for all the world like an alley cat about to devour a helpless baby bird. “Let him go then. He’s fine now, he says. Or do I need to call a council of the elders to find out if you are playing vigilante again, Onandagus?”
“I’ll be going now,” whined Ezra.
“If you wish, young Ezra, but we have much more to discuss,” said Onandagus. “Let him go, Amaron.”
Amaron released Ezra’s hands but pulled a colossal dagger from his wide leather belt and cut away yet another cord that Ezra hadn’t even known had bound him to the big Nephite. Amaron put the knife away slowly, brandishing it before Judge Hiram, letting the sunlight glint against the striped Damascus blade and flash in his eyes.
Ignoring him, the judge turned to Onandagus. “You go too far, Chief Judge. You push your luck with the people, and they cry out for your resignation.”
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