Heroes of the Fallen

by David J. West

  “I not kill them. I found them before you did. Tracks say they killed by five men. See yourself,” he gestured to the tracks, which were plain to him.

  Captain Limhi spat at them. “I don’t see it that way. You murdered them to stir up trouble against us, and then you were fool enough to stick around long enough to get caught. Throw down your weapons, in the name of the Judge Morihor.”

  Feeling he had no choice, Qof-Ayin dropped his bow and unbuckled his sword belt. One of the men dropped off his horse and gathered them up while another bound his arms behind his back and attached a rope to his waist. He was forced to follow behind the third horseman. They gave him no water on the three-mile march back to Desolation.

  It was near dusk as they approached the city gates. These were old twenty-foot tall walls, built of picketed logs, then covered in adobe. Most were crumbling, revealing the wood beneath. The gates themselves were new and strong, made of a wood like hickory or oak, riveted together with copper.

  Inside the open market plaza there was all manner of buying and selling, not that different from the markets of home. Qof-Ayin noticed some fruits and vegetables he was not familiar with as well as a few strange animals. Turning down a side street, they passed what he thought was a church. The doors hung open, broken on their hinges. Dirt and bird droppings covered the floor. The wooden building lurched as it rotted from the inside out.

  Scantily clad women lined the street and stared at him. “Who is this strange looking man?” called a brown-haired girl with makeup so dark about her eyes it looked like a mask.

  “Another Lamanite we captured lurking about the city. He murdered his companions,” said Limhi, looking down at her from his high horse.

  “Savage!” she sputtered at him and threw a glass of something that smelled of wine, although with a foul and foreign scent to the Lamanite. Qof-Ayin tried to move away to the other side of the street but was met with more jeering. The women began to throw trash and small stones at him.

  “Enough!” shouted Limhi, “I won’t tolerate this from any of you. You’ll spook my horse.”

  “See you tonight,” called one of the ladies of the night.

  “Yes, when I have finished here,” laughed Limhi.

  Qof-Ayin feared there would be no justice from these people. If he did not return to the palace and serve Xoltec, Zelph would never be allowed to leave with the army. Limhi dismounted his horse and took the rope holding Qof-Ayin from one of his men, leading the prisoner into a thick-walled adobe structure that stunk of sweat and waste. A guard sat nursing a jug of foul-smelling wine.

  “Watch this one, or by Dagon’s beard you’ll join him in the dungeon. You hearing me Micah?” shouted Limhi. The man called Micah nodded and took another swig of his wine once Limhi’s back was turned.

  Thrown into a stench-filled adobe cell, Qof-Ayin took stock of the situation. It was about twelve foot by twelve foot with a single heavily barred door and a small slit of a window, also barred. A man was asleep in the corner, dressed in rags. He faintly stirred as Qof-Ayin exerted himself on the bars.

  After a short time, the raggedy old man coughed and awoke. He blinked in the moonlight that was creeping in through the bars. “I am Abinadab, and who are you my son? Why are you here?” he asked in a friendly tone.

  “I am Qof-Ayin,” he said.

  “Oh, a Lamanite. How fare your people, my brother? I have not been down to your lands in many years.”

  This surprised Qof-Ayin after how the other Nephites had treated him “They are dire times.”

  “Yes, it’s bad all over. Why are you here?”

  “They accused me of killing two men out beyond the gates, but I did not. The city guard would not see the evidence for themselves.”

  “I understand the ways of these men all too well,” said Abinadab.

  “You are old, what could you have done?” asked Qof-Ayin.

  “I told them the truth, and that is more than they can bear. I have been preaching repentance to this city for three years now. They have cast me out forcibly numerous times and even shipped me bound and gagged as far away as Tullan.” He grew serious, the smile on his face darkening slightly. “But I am commanded to return and preach. This is the last time I’ll be cast into prison and beaten, starved, and tormented. The Lord has told me it is enough, I am to be freed soon, and then I am to wash the dust of this place from my feet.”

  “The Great Spirit speaks to you?”

  “Yea, He truly does.”

  “Then He has guided me to you, that I may learn more,” said Qof-Ayin.

  “Yea, He has,” answered Abinadab.

  They spoke of the Gospel for many hours and Qof-Ayin knew the truth of Abinadab’s words. Many questions left unanswered all his life were made clear by this sage and seer.

  “It is about time,” said Abinadab, seeing the brightness of the moon now darkened by cloud cover.

  “What time? Have you a plan?”

  “No, I only know the Lord will provide something tonight when the time is right.”

  A whisper came to the window. “Brothers,” it was a woman’s soft voice.

  Looking to the window, Qof-Ayin could see a slender woman outside as she reached up high to hand him a stout rope. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t worry about that, I am here to help. Tie it around the bars well and be ready.” As he did so, Qof-Ayin looked to Abinadab who merely shrugged his shoulders.

  Standing back from the window, Qof-Ayin heard a whip and the grunt of oxen. The whip smacked them again and the rope grew taught until the wall section flew away. Holding Abinadab back a moment, Qof-Ayin waited for the dust and the falling debris to clear. He helped the old man out over the strewn adobe and iron. The woman stood beside the oxen, whip in hand.

  “This way quickly!” she said, over her shoulder as she ran. Men shouted from behind the still locked door of the prison. The woman led them down a short alley to a stable with four horses waiting.

  Another woman came running and mounted the first horse. “We must flee!” she called, racing her mount out the door. They helped Abinadab to get atop his horse and the three of them trotted toward the gates, close behind the first woman.

  Qof-Ayin feared the gate would be shut at night, but it was open. Yet another woman on horseback waited for them just outside. All five careened out into the star strewn night and crossed the muddy river. The shouts of anger and cursed frustration were left far, far behind.

  As the wide, golden dawn broke the eastern horizon, they cantered the horses and came to a stop beside the river far upstream.

  “My thanks to you ladies,” said Abinadab, smiling. He took off his ragged head scarf and the sunlight reflected off his bald head. Just a hint of fuzzy white stubble grew around his ears and the top of the neck.

  They dismounted and watered the horses, Qof-Ayin recognized the women. They were harlots from the street in Desolation, among the few who had not stoned him.

  The first approached Abinadab and said, “We were waiting for the right time, our apologies for your misfortunes.”

  “You three are the only ones who listened and learned regardless of past sins. Now the Lord’s judgment is to be fulfilled upon the city of Desolation. I wash the dust from my feet of that cursed place.”

  Qof-Ayin watched in amazement as Abinadab sat at the edge of the river and let his feet get wet and rinsed in the murky river, implementing a righteous curse. “Where will you go now?” Qof-Ayin asked.

  “We will travel north. I have a brother I have not seen in years and the cities north have just as much need of hearing God’s word as this one did. And you, brother, where will you go?”

  “South, to my son. There is much I must teach him.”

  “I understand. Remember, tell your son to keep well away from Desolation. There will be a terrible sickness there for some time.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  “Listen, my Lamanite friend, you will be required to make a great sacrifice, as Abraham
and Isaac did. Remember and be strong. May the Lord bless and keep you.” With that they departed in opposite directions, Qof-Ayin to the south, Abinadab and his three companions to the north.

  Two days later along the trail, Qof-Ayin came upon another dead spy, again with three Nephite arrows in his back. The next day he found yet another slain spy. He recognized the man’s face but did not know his name. His throat had been slit and a broken arrow protruded from his back. Following the dead man’s back trail, Qof-Ayin found a well concealed camp containing the dead spies’ equipment and weapons.

  Searching the ground meticulously, he found a Gadianton dagger buried in the dirt and brush, a ceremonial dagger. It all made sense now, Akish-Antum was manipulating the war. There was no war but the one he created.

  On horseback, he made good time over the next week, traveling the trackless miles to home. He slept in the saddle or upon the ground whenever he let the horse rest.

  That was when they found him. Three Lamanite -Gadianton braves, one barefoot. Hard and calloused though his feet were, one of them stepped upon the sharp spines of a cactus in the dark and cried out in muffled pain.

  Sleeping on the ground, a cry of pain from the dark woke Qof-Ayin. He rolled hard and fast to his left. The Lamanite-Gadianton brave standing over him with a dagger missed his throat, but his arm took a horrible gash. Having only a simple dagger, Qof-Ayin slashed back at the three foes. He wheeled around and caught one in the heart, twisted and ripped it out. Tumbling to one side, Qof-Ayin rolled as the other two rushed him from opposite sides. He came up sharp and slashed deep into the mid-thigh of the first robber. Blood spurted in angry bursts, and he knew it would be a mortal wound. The robber stopped and slowly pitched forward as darkness took him. Qof-Ayin now turned his full attention to the last assassin who, seeing his two dead companions, fled into the night.

  Weary from loss of blood, Qof-Ayin bound his wound tight and fell upon his horse as it took him into the night, away from the stench of death.

  Through a Rent Veil

  The hammering in Amaron’s head wouldn’t stop. He blinked, his head throbbed, his strong arm heavy with the weight of the sword Ramevorn held high and ready over the cowering enemy.

  What is that screaming? It won’t stop.

  “Amaron, no! She is Lilith, she is the Gadianton woman!”

  Someone was shouting his name. Who?

  “Amaron, my love. Kill the man you despise. Slay the traitorous fool. Kill him. Kill him now!”

  Amaron blinked again at the enemy on the ground before him. The man on the ground stopped shouting, his eyes closed tightly. Ezra’s arms were folded across his chest, his lips moving ever so slightly.

  Is he praying?

  “Amaron, kill him!” shrieked the madwoman at his side.

  Why should he strike down a weak, unarmed man, who down upon his knees prays for deliverance? Amaron hesitated, staring dumbly at the little man.

  “Oh, he is worthless, too much of the leaf in his system makes him catatonic,” said the woman. “Taharka, kill them both!”

  The mountainous ebon giant pulled his copper scimitar free from its rich leather scabbard and stalked toward the two men, grinning in a devilish delight. Still blinking, trying to clear his head, Amaron heard her give the order and the mute giant approach. Although weakened, he knew the reach of his broadsword. When Taharka was within reach, Amaron wheeled on the ball of his right foot and swung the blade.

  It bit deep, and the Nubian smiled no more. Lilith screamed and drew a dagger from her girdle. Amaron faced her with both a dark scowl and naked red sword. She turned and fled into the black night, her servant girl beside her.

  “The Lord answered my prayer. He had you save us,” exclaimed Ezra.

  Amaron looked at the man he had hated and saw now a friend. Exhausted, he lay down and slept.

  Afraid that the guardsman would pursue and slay her, Lilith ran headlong into the welcoming rapture of darkness. She ran over thick brambles and fallen logs until she collapsed, never once looking back. She had lost Aselin somewhere far back in the dark trees. She heard the girl calling for her, but nothing on earth would make her reply and risk being taken by that stoic hero of a madman. She cared little for Aselin anyway. Wasn’t it her fault the plan had failed?

  Yes, of course it was, if the fool of a servant girl had only given the potion to the traitor more quickly, then Amaron never would have awoken to conscious action.

  Taharka was the greater loss to her, far beyond anything a thousand Aselin’s could ever be. Her bodyguard had been too confident striding over to the Nephite without his guard up. Fool to approach even a drugged enemy holding a drawn sword. Since buying him from Phoenician traders, Taharka had been her manservant and bodyguard for ten years. He had been trained by both Akish-Antum and Uzzsheol, the Lamanite tracker assassin.

  Taharka was dead and the Nephite Amaron would slay her on sight. There would be no chance for her to turn Amaron to the Order. That cursed Nephite. She would not return to Zarahemla now. It would be too dangerous. The guardsmen might turn back and find her. She could not take that chance.

  She made for the city of Bountiful due southeast. If she hurried, she could make it before anyone heard of her mishap. She wanted none to know she had failed, even if it was the fault of Aselin and Taharka.

  Running, she tripped and fell. Darkness engulfed her in thick shadowy arms. As she lay there in the gloom thinking, she noticed that it was almost dawn. The sun would be coming up soon and there had been no hint of pursuers catching up to her. Maybe things would go well on this new day.

  Make the best of it, she told herself. She got up and began to walk through the trees toward a road she knew would take her to the city of Bountiful. There would be plenty of the Kindred in Bountiful to help her. She would return to the Wasp Nest, the lodge of Akish-Antum, her husband.

  When Amaron awoke, it was nearing late midday. The others were awake but still groggy from whatever potion they had been given. Judah had the worst of it, he had been persuaded to drink the most by the handmaiden.

  “I have told them how you saved us by overcoming the poisons. You are a hero,” said Ezra. The others looked appreciative and marveled at the huge body of Taharka lying just outside the camp.

  “Don’t say that. It is my fault. I let my guard down for a pretty face and it nearly got us killed. I did not look beyond the bend in the river.”

  “How could you have known?” asked Ezra.

  “A good scout knows. I am sorry, I endangered us all. It will not happen again.”

  “Still, you are the one who saved us,” said Ezra.

  “Don’t,” commanded Amaron with a glaring eye. He stood on shaky legs and said, “Let us move on. We are behind on the road and the demoness has gone on before us. Let us be wary.”

  “What do you want to do about that?” asked Daniel, pointing at the body.

  “We will bury him,” said Amaron.

  “But he wanted to kill us,” said Ezra.

  “I didn’t say we had to bury him very deep. Get to it, we must move on.”

  After burying Taharka, they gathered their gear and began the long hot march to Gideon and Manti, under a blazing, angry sun.

  Choose Ye This Day

  Within the assembly room of the Judgment Hall, fifty men sat impatiently awaiting the arrival of the chief judge. The white plastered walls were plain, the hard-wooden benches ornate. Tension filled the room as these leading men of the nation sweat under a late spring heat wave.

  “Onandagus wants us to suffer. He yearns for the days of servitude when the people served the priests and disciples like kings,” complained a councilman of enormous girth.

  “Why do you say that?” asked the young man beside him, scribbling on a scroll.

  “The man is a fanatic and too powerful. Chief judge of all the land, governor of Zarahemla, and the priesthood head of his church besides. He opposes the king men because a king would take away his power and give it to someon
e else.”

  “So, you support the king men?” asked the young man.

  “Don’t you dare write that down,” bellowed the fat man. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Simon, a scribe. I am here to record the events for posterity,” he stammered.

  “I will tell you this as a member of the Council of Fifty. The program is flawed and needs to be changed, but I do not support the king men. I will not trade a tyrant for a zealous fanatic.”

  “And who are you, sir, if I might ask? I will not record nor speak of our conversation.”

  “You don’t know, huh,” he chuckled. “I am Barkos the Fat, and yes, I am the richest man in Zarahemla. I am the man you have heard of. I own a large portion of the south and west side of town. I own and run the best mail service in all of Bountiful-Land.”

  “Yes, but they also say you took advantage of people because before you there was no fire department.”

  Barkos glared at him. “Some would say that yes, better to sell their home to me for a pittance and keep their belongings than lose everything. Am I a bad person to make a profit by being prepared? I saw a need. Every Nephite home, every Nephite building is wood and plaster, except a few fools cementing homes out west where they cannot even grow a tree. Do you have any idea how many buildings burn down every year? Well, I thought about it and attached water tanks to wagons and employed an army of men to fight fires. I have fire captains who will not begin work until the inhabitants first sign over the deeds to their houses. Then, I let the people keep their belongings,” said Barkos.

  Simon had nothing to say.

  “Oh no, you can’t say anything can you? Everyone is jealous that I thought of it first. Some tried to do the same. All failed. That is life. I became a member of the Council of Fifty to protect my interests, not to wait on a religious fanatic all day. Where is he?”

  The oaken doors swung open, entering, Onandagus seemed surrounded in light. The chief judge took his place on the podium. Close behind was the elderly Ammaron the Scribe, who acted as his secretary.