Heroes of the Fallen

by David J. West

  “It is the Ox. It runs parallel to the Avenue of the Cat and eventually meets the Avenue of the Eagle in about a half mile,” said Ezra, obviously pleased he could help.

  Getting his bearings straight, Amaron asked, “Why did you come back?”

  “Wherever I run, they will find and kill me. You fought off a dozen of the best the Order has. So, it’s safer with you two. I mean you... I am sorry about your friend.”

  Amaron never stopped scanning the streets, fully expecting to have to drop his deceased brother in arms to fight another attack; but none came. A wagon creaked by, a farmer with a load of hay for market on the morrow.

  “You there,” Amaron called to him. “We need your wagon.”

  Startled, the farmer said, “I have nuthin’ of value and the horses are old. They are of no worth to such as you.” His drawl sounded as if it was from out into the northeast wilderness.

  “Take it easy, we have no wish to rob you. My friend was struck down by robbers. We are guardsmen and would appreciate you helping us get him to the judgment hall.”

  Looking around fearfully at the darkened streets, the farmer said, “All right. Get ‘em into the hay in back.”

  They loaded Helam’s body into the wagon and Amaron covered it with a fair amount of hay.

  “So, there are more out there looking for you two?” asked the farmer.

  “Yea, there are. Will you still help us?” said Ezra.

  “I am no friend of the robbers. Get under the hay in case they are watching the Judgment Hall then,” he said, adding, “I am Jonas.”

  “We thank you,” said Amaron. “But I will sit beside you on the wagon. If something happens, I must be ready with my sword, not hiding under the hay.”

  Jonas nodded.

  “If you don’t mind, I will sit behind you in the back,” said Ezra.

  “I mind,” said Amaron. “Sit to the side there, where I can see you.”

  Ezra did as he was told, but still hunkered down a little into the hay and covered himself. The wagon began its creaking journey down the Avenue of the Ox as Amaron watched every shadow and trick of light with suspicion.

  “You need to tell me where it is we are a goin’ too,” drawled Jonas.

  “Straight down this avenue until we get to the next big one, and then we go left to the center of the city, to the Judgment Hall. You have never been there?” asked Amaron.

  “No need. I usually go to markets north of here but this year, with such a good crop, had me some surplus. So, I decided to head on down, get city supplies and something for the wife.” He puffed on his pipe.

  The big guardsman watched. Something would happen soon.

  “Can I ask you something, Amaron?” asked Ezra.

  “What?”

  “How is it you are the way you are?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You faced a dozen dagger men and you did not back down or cower from them.”

  “So?” came Amaron’s surly reply, along with a shrug.

  “Dagger men are the worst of the Gadianton assassins. They are cold-blooded, ruthless killers.”

  “What makes them any different than you?”

  “I am only an apprentice, not a killer,” protested Ezra.

  Amaron sniffed.

  “You don’t have to kill anyone to become an apprentice or middle grade. You do to become a master,” Ezra mumbled at the last.

  “I care nothing for your false secrets,” Amaron growled.

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Your kind knows no truth.” Amaron, glared at him.

  “I know a little about church, the church you and Onandagus belong to,” said Ezra, stopping short.

  Amaron raised an arched eyebrow at him.

  “I know some,” he went on.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I joined the Order because I am ambitious. I wanted to be rich, have fine clothes, a fine home, and a fine woman by my side. Why, even your Chief Judge Onandagus has several homes and properties.”

  “Shut your mouth! That’s his business and his family!” Amaron shouted at him. Then, realizing he had been louder than he meant, he turned back around and continued watching the road.

  Jonas looked at him, then Ezra but said nothing.

  “It just seems that when a man has so much—” Ezra began.

  Amaron cut him off. “Well, it is not like that. He works for a living like all the rest of us.”

  “I’m sorry, I got a little off track,” continued Ezra. “How do you face down a dozen dagger men?”

  “I never have before tonight.”

  “A dozen with poisoned daggers, dedicated killers.”

  Amaron stared hard at him. “Perhaps you have forgotten that my friend is dead.” He grabbed Ezra by the scruff of his collar and thrust him at the cold dead face of Helam. “He did not flinch either!” His eyes flashed cold fire.

  “I’m sorry, you can let go.” Ezra pulled back a little.

  Amaron released his grip so suddenly, that Ezra fell back hitting his head against the sideboard of the wagon.

  Jonas turned to look at them, but still said nothing. Puffing away on his pipe, he turned back to drive his nags.

  “I respect you. I only want to know and understand how you have the courage to face a dozen,” said Ezra, holding the back of his head.

  Looking from Jonas to Ezra, Amaron was silent for a long time.

  “Courage isn’t something I see within the Order,” said Ezra, still waiting upon the brooding guardsman.

  Amaron finally replied. “A dozen swords or one, it matters not. Any fool can kill you, numbers mean little to me. I have a purpose in this life, and I am good at what I do. I have a talent that makes me a leader of men in my chosen profession.”

  “Which is?” Ezra asked. Amaron smirked again, holding his sword at the ready. “But why do numbers mean little?”

  “Because. I will not dwell on defeat. I do not think of it. To win, to prevail is the all. If I were to die, I have served my God and it is my time to go with honor, but as I said before, I do not think of defeat. Only victory. If I am positive enough and strong enough, I will conquer.”

  “They will not give up.”

  “I know, and neither will I. Had I known Helam was to die this night, I would have run after those dog brothers of yours and slaughtered them all!”

  “Please, I’m done with the Order. I’m one of them no more. Onandagus said you would protect me and…” Ezra trailed off as Amaron glared at him.

  “Do you know something that is worth Helam’s death? I hope so!”

  “I do know something important. Akish-Antum is far to the south inflaming the Lamanites’ hatred. He is coaxing them to come and attack us here in Zarahemla,” Ezra raised his chin, hid voice quivering only a little.

  Jonas, still puffing on his pipe, looked back at them and raised his eyebrows, silent as ever.

  “If you are just an apprentice as you say, who has not killed a man,” Amaron’s voice dripped with contempt, “why would you know anything of importance?”

  “Every Gadianton knows. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of us are helping along the roads and byways in preparation for the invasion. I was to help in a supply train from the Narrow Pass to here. My worshipful master, Judge Ishmael, changed his mind about a few things and made me part of the internal readiness instead. That’s all I know for sure.”

  “How soon is this to happen?”

  “In a few months. In time for some holy feast, this summer I think.”

  Amaron rubbed the stubble on his chin. “But what could the Lamanites hope to accomplish by coming this far? They would be stretching their supply line to say the least... and what is ‘internal readiness’?”

  “I can answer both. Once the Lamanites attack, they’re either victorious and impose a puppet king; or they’re repelled, and the people will cry for a strong king to protect us from them again.”

  “What of those w
ho would not stand for that, such as the chief judge?”

  “That is why there are so many dagger men in the city now,” said Ezra, looking over his shoulder into the night. Jonas turned the wagon onto the Avenue of the Eagle toward the tall, white-walled building ahead of them.

  “Who would be proclaimed king?”

  “I don’t know… the Grand Master Akish-Antum, maybe Judge Hiram. I was never sure who they had in mind.”

  Amaron laughed. “How convenient.”

  “I speak the truth as I know it,” Ezra said, growing a little indignant.

  “Of course, you do, and why wouldn’t you?”

  Angered at his sarcasm, Ezra declared, “The dagger men came to kill me. Do you think I lie about that? My life is forfeit. If any Gadianton ever sees me, I am to be murdered. My life is over except I help you and Onandagus.”

  Jonas blew a thick puff from his pipe and said, “I believe ya’. Now anythin' you'll wanna tell me afore we meet these dagg'r men?”

  “They wear red caps, probably black cloaks. Don't let them cut you,” said Amaron.

  “The dagger men will not stop,” said Ezra.

  “Put on Helam’s breastplate. It will stop any arrow or dagger,” said Amaron.

  “No, thank you. It is too big, and I could not run with it on. It would be a simple task for a dagger man to catch me and slide it in around the thing. Dagger men do not use arrows. They don’t like bows,” said Ezra, watching the side roads.

  “They don’t like using bows? That’s stupid,” laughed Amaron.

  “Maybe, but the penalties are specific. They want to slit my throat and more. It’s personal, so they won’t shoot at me... maybe you, though.”

  Amaron cocked an eyebrow, but he had confidence in his well-crafted, hardened-copper breastplate. It was old, forged by the ancient secret process which made the metal strong as steel. The Nephites called this “exalted copper.” It had been his great, great, great grandfather’s, as was his sword, all that was left of Teancum the Great. He always wished he had the infamous spear that had slain kings.

  “What did you do before you became a guardsman?” asked Ezra.

  “My father is Ammaron the Scribe. He tried to get me to follow in his footsteps, but I was not interested. I can read and write very well, but I have no desire to scribe for judges and lawyers or record the news of the day. I would rather live history than write it,” said Amaron, as he held out his sword blade. “My father says a quill cuts deeper than a sword-stroke, but I say it depends on which way it cuts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Records of some men will outlast the ages, recited for eons, tales of pain and glory, tragedy and triumph. But for others, like Helam, it is all done and gone, his torch is extinguished. The cut that took him is more permanent than any eulogy. Farewell, old friend, farewell,” he said, clasping the dead man's hand.

  Jonas had driven the wagon to within two blocks of the hall, when voices rang out in the darkness. “Death to the traitor!” It was the mysterious wicked woman’s voice.

  Two arrows flew straight to Amaron’s chest, hitting him squarely before ricocheting off. He whipped his sword out and leapt catlike off the wagon. Ezra ducked into the hay next to Helam’s body.

  “They got red caps.” remarked Jonas, snickering.

  “Get into the hall!” shouted Amaron.

  Jonas whipped the reins on his two nags, and they picked up the pace somewhat, heading straight to the hall. From the shadows, five men in dark blue cloaks ran alongside the wagon. With naked blades glinting in the moonlight, one slashed at Jonas who managed to narrowly escape being cut as he slid over and roused the old horses to maximum speed. The assassins were forced to turn and deal with Amaron, howling with rage behind them.

  Roaring and cursing, he charged the one nearest him with a dragon’s ferocity. The dagger man tried to parry the mighty broadsword with his short scimitar, but the wicked blade burst to pieces as did the grinning head behind it. Another flying arrow deflected from Amaron’s back. The four dagger men backed up closer to each other, worry lines creasing their foreheads.

  Savage, like a rabid wolf on helpless sheep, Amaron bounded toward them. He drew his war hammer with his left hand, a squared face on the front and a vicious spike on the back. With both weapons, he cleaved into the dagger men, leaving only bodies and broken oaths on the ground. “Dogs! Jackals! I send you to hell!” he cried in a red rage.

  Cutting the last man asunder, Amaron calmed enough to look for the wagon. It was nearly a block away already, close to the gates of the massive white edifice. He ran at full pace, his heart pumping at an incredible rate. The gate was opened by four guardsmen waiting with Onandagus. Wheeling around, Amaron scanned for threats from the dark avenues of Zarahemla. Finding none, he trotted the last few yards to the gate.

  “Are you injured?” asked Onandagus. “You are covered in blood.”

  “I don’t know,” Amaron panted in response. “I do not think so... it’s just blood of those jackal dagger men.”

  “Come into my house,” the judge commanded. “We will get you cleaned up. Come Ezra.”

  Two guardsmen reached into the wagon to retrieve Helam’s body. Onandagus sighed and clasped the hand of the deceased guardsman. If a tear came to his eye no one else saw it and his usual stony demeanor returned. He had to be strong, he had to be hard. With his duties he could not afford to break down for anyone or anything, the machine had to keep rolling along.

  “We thank you for your help. And this for your troubles,” said Onandagus to Jonas, offering him a senine of gold. “You are also welcome to stay the night here with us. It could still be dangerous out there. Some may be angered with you for having helped us.”

  “Anything I can do to help against the likes of those robbers, I am happy to do. So, you can keep the senine o’ gold, but it would be nice to stay here for the night an’ perhaps tomorrow you can tell me where I could get a fair price for my crop.”

  “I will buy all of your hay, for the best price possible. We could always use a little more.”

  The gate was closed and barred for the night, with extra men on guard detail. As they headed to his home within the hall, Onandagus said to Amaron, “We could have used another prisoner or two; mayhap we could have gleaned a little more information.”

  “Not these, they would never have surrendered. They were dagger men brought in for the task at hand. Besides, they murdered Helam.”

  “I am sorry... he was a good guardsman. I know his father, and I will speak to him myself on the morrow,” said the judge. “I am grateful to you. You have done us a great service retrieving Ezra. Without him, we would still be in the dark as to the Gadianton plan. Now get cleaned up. Your father would be horrified to see you so bloody.”

  Amaron smirked. “Yea, he would not understand, he never has. But with a wicked talent like this, what else shall I do?”

  A Dark Fallen Star

  “Balam-Ek!” shouted the old king. “What does the sign portend? Your own priests claim this flaming ear of corn in the sky is a terrible dark omen. What are these unexplainable fires, and this wailing woman mewling for her children? If she is found, I want her flogged.” He slammed fist against palm.

  The high priest gestured, arms wide open. “I will consult the entrails of sacrificial prisoners to discover what these signs do indeed mean.”

  “I want to know right now!” demanded the king, his voice nearly flaking apart. He stared coldly at Balam-Ek. “Why did you not know of the coming of this dark star? I am disturbed at your lack of vigilance in such matters.”

  “Your majesty,” Balam-Ek chose his words carefully. “The universe is vast. I cannot be properly prepared for all scenarios, and I admit this has caught me unawares. It was not in any known star chart, nor was it scheduled according to the calendar of Tzolkin. We will know what it means very soon.”

  “Your incompetence is beginning to worry me.” The king coughed.

  Balam-Ek brist
led but wisely said nothing.

  Taking a deep draught from a wineskin, the king belched. “Send for all the magicians in the land. I would have an answer soon.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” said Balam-Ek as he bowed himself out.

  A young priest came up beside him outside the hall. “Do we serve an old man who is beyond reason, a stargazer in the noonday sun?”

  “You will watch your tongue... still there are many surprises left for that old one,” said the high priest. “Have the palace guard bring the prisoners to the altar of Baal. Hurry to it!”

  None in the king’s court dared speak for a few tense moments after the drunken display of anger at his highly favored priest.

  The young, dark-eyed prince stood on the king’s left and bowed. “Father, may I retire for the night?”

  “Eh? Yes, Aaron, you may go. Sayame, see to him,” said the king, slurring his words.

  Sayame, the princess of sixteen years, took her younger brother by the hand to lead him down the hall to the royal quarters. He pulled out of her grasp, at twelve years of age, he was tired of being treated like an infant. His older brother Almek laughed at him as Sayame tried to grip his hand again. His siblings were day and night of each other. Almek was ugly and cruel, Sayame was beautiful and kind. Aaron hoped he had the best qualities of both.

  Why do they always treat me like an inferior child? I am wiser than my elder brother and yet no one sees it. I am more capable. I could rule these grand halls and more, someday.

  “Here is your room, dear brother. Do you wish me to read to you until you fall asleep?” asked Sayame with a sweetness in her voice. She was the only one who treated him like a person. Dear to his heart she was, even if she did treat him like he was half his age.

  “No, not tonight, I would like to be alone.”

  “Very well, Aaron,” she kissed him on the forehead and blew out all but one candle. This sat on an altar covered with small effigies of the main pantheon of Lamanite gods.

  Once her thin silhouette disappeared down the hall, he climbed back out of his reed and woolen bed. Kneeling before the altar and the half dozen gods, he whispered, “Tell me, oh mighty gods of my fathers. Direct me and guide me. Show me the path to greatness, show me how to gain the acceptance of my father who dislikes me for my mother’s awful, cursed Nephite name. Curse my name and grant me another soon.” Head bowed and eyes shut tight in quiet desperation, he felt the wind blow the candle out as coldness entered the room. Though his eyes remained shut, he perceived a presence.