Heroes of the Fallen

by David J. West

  Anathoth had never seen an elephant before. He hoped they would not be too formidable a beast to slay, that they would be more like cattle than like a fierce or attentive dog that protects its master.

  As the caravan completed its circuit around the corner, Anathoth counted them. A dozen horsemen up front, laughing and talking, unaware of their doom. They were followed by several wagons fully laden with another dozen horsemen behind them. It was not a bad defensive system, if their guards had been aware. As the last of them rounded the bend, he marveled at the brown woolly mammoths. Each had a rider and carried extra-large saddlebags.

  When the caravan was in position, his designated men rolled the haphazard distraction of rocks and logs. It stopped the train in its collective tracks and made several of the wagons back into each other. It was exactly what Anathoth wanted. They were trapped. Sounding a war cry and whoop his men loosed their arrows in a wide merciless rain of death. Each guardsman was hit and fell. Women screamed while a few men in the wagons attempted to break off and run for safety. These died with arrows in their backs.

  Fully surrounded by the copper-skinned men and bloody screams, the remaining Nephites were swiftly cut down. It was over in an instant. Warriors sprang upon the wagons with their sharp scimitars, killing the women as quickly as the men.

  Mighty Lib pulled a beautiful girl out of the back of one of the rear-most wagons but did not to slay her. Her long, wavy black hair and blue eyes must have caught his fancy. He was too ugly for the likes of her but, for just a moment, he held her in his arms. Throwing her over his shoulder, he ignored her kicks and cries for help. Her struggles were as nothing to his great strength.

  There was an odious cry of victory from Anathoth’s men, excited by the spoils of this ambush. Over half of the caravan was loaded with succulent wines from the southeast Nephite lands.

  Striding up to Anathoth, Lib dropped the girl at his feet. “A prize for you, General,” said the giant in his twisted speech. “Once I saw her beauty, I knew she must be for one such as you. I decided not to slay her but grant her as a gift from your men to you.”

  No longer screaming, she had hateful fire in her eyes. “Why,” she asked.” Why, why, why, why?”

  “What does she say?” asked Lib who spoke only Tultec.

  “She asks why we did this,” said Anathoth with pity.

  “Ha, it is life,” said Lib. “She is yours.” He strode back down the low hill to claim other spoils for himself.

  Looking at the weeping girl in the light blue shift and sparkling girdle, Anathoth spoke in broken Nephite. “Remove your gold and jewelry and give them to me.”

  She was quick to comply, handing him her earrings and bracelets.

  “The ring too,” he said.

  She pulled it off and gave it to him. He put these in the pouch that hung from his wide leather belt. “I am Anathoth, a general of the army from Tullan.”

  “You are from Tullan?” she asked.

  “Yes, but for your own good do not speak again unless I ask you to. I will not hurt or violate you, but if it is not clear to the others that you are my slave, worse could come upon you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, wiping away the tears.

  “You will ride on a horse behind me, or in my chariot, and sleep in my tent. Remember, I am your only hope here, so do not betray my trust or you will be dealt with harshly.”

  She looked over at the wagons as they were being torn apart.

  “Was your family there?” he asked with concern.

  “No, they are in Zarahemla.”

  “Why were you here? What is your name?”

  She blushed and looked away. “Bethia. I ran away. It was stupid, foolish.”

  He just stared, revealing nothing, and she turned her face away again.

  “You may have a chance to see your family again, soon enough.”

  “How?” Her eyes, still damp with tears, were wide and bright.

  “We are bound for Zarahemla even now.”

  “Zarahemla?” she gasped. “But why? You cannot raid it as you would a caravan. Are you not just Gadianton robbers?”

  “Nay, well, not all of us are.”

  “But why Zarahemla? You could not possibly take the city. My fa—, I mean, Onandagus would hang you all.”

  He smiled at that as they rounded the bend in the road, revealing the full size of the army to her. “There is not enough rope in Zarahemla to hang all these men.”

  She stood amazed at the thousands upon thousands of Lamanites and Ishmaelites arrayed in line upon line. “Master Anathoth, what is all of this? What is happening?”

  “It is an army.” He raised his sword to the watching warriors.

  “For what? What are you going to do?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  “Conquer,” said Akish-Antum, striding up beside them. He seemed to look right through the girl’s very soul.

  “But Zarahemla’s great wall and its guardsmen and the prophet Onandagus will stop you,” she said, full of urgent fear.

  “No, he won’t,” laughed Akish-Antum. “This army will take Zarahemla and I will drink Onandagus’s blood,” he thundered as he walked away toward his chariot. He turned once more to stare at the girl, but just as quick, looked back to his gilded chariot and drove his team away.

  “Please, no,” she whispered.

  Anathoth looked at her and said, “It cannot be stopped, this army has but one purpose, and it is grim.”

  The Baptismal Undertow

  The new, makeshift assembly hall thundered with accusations and threats. Gathered in a large tavern with a wide-open banquet hall and tiered floors radiating out from its center, the members of the Council of Fifty and Judge’s Council argued. Smoke from many pipes filled the air and the smell of sweat was heavy. The warriors in the crowd were ever ready to spill blood. Hands on hilts, they waited.

  “Order! I will have order. Everyone will have a chance to speak in turn,” said Onandagus. The men were slow to quiet. “That’s better. Now, I accede that the accused, Gershom, is a secretary of mine and some lawyers argue that as such, I cannot fairly be the judge of him on this case. So be it, but I can still call upon anyone else to do it, someone proven to be unbiased.”

  Many men yelled out, and Mormon the Elder was sure he could hear a few yelling for Hiram to be judge of the case. Onandagus heard it too. “If Judge Hiram is to testify against Gershom, son of Joseph, then he cannot hear the case. This is one of our oldest laws. I stand in the way of nothing.”

  The mass of men stood and shouted in chaotic gnashing and confusion. Mormon the Elder rose from his chair and glared at them, the room quieted briefly.

  “I am not the only one accusing him,” shouted Hiram. “Captain Gidgiddonah is he who captured the culprit.”

  “I don’t believe he is guilty,” shouted Gidgiddonah, as he stood to refute Judge Hiram.

  “Rich man’s son!” blustered a man from the back. “You can’t pay us what to think.”

  “As if my dead father has anything to do with this case,” shouted Gidgiddonah in response, bristling as he looked to his own worn shoes and the tattered edge of his cloak. “How dare they, am I not my own man?” he said to Mormon the Elder under his breath.

  More shouting ensued, with people on both sides screaming at each other. Mormon the Younger sat close behind Onandagus and his father. On his other side sat Samson, Onandagus’s colossal bodyguard. The huge man chuckled as he sat with his brawny arms folded across his chest and feet stretched out. He had just recently returned from the south, and whatever news he had brought had both relieved and infuriated Onandagus.

  “What is so funny?” Mormon the Younger asked Samson.

  “Just, we got ourselves a Lemuelite standoff, is all,” replied the bodyguard.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when you got a couple of idiots who'll never agree or back down. They’re too scared to fight it out, but they sure talk like they will. It’s called a Lemuelite standoff,
but anyone I ever knew who fit that category lives right here in Zarahemla.” He chuckled again as the arguments became louder.

  Onandagus banged his staff on the floor, and it echoed across the hall. “I will have order or I will make this a closed court.”

  “You cannot do that. This affects all of us. The judgment hall was burned,” shouted one in the back.

  “As was my governor’s home and the temple,” countered Onandagus.

  “Bah, a temple for a forgotten religion of fools,” said Palal, a stout man in the back.

  “Throw that man out, Gilhi, Barak,” commanded Mormon the Elder, motioning to his two trusted guardsmen.

  The stout man with jewel-encrusted fingers came from a wealthy and proud family. He struggled against the two strong guardsmen. “I am Palal, you cannot do this.” He pulled away from them, but they retained their grip on his silken shirt, tearing it. “You tore my fine shirt. Your thugs have ripped my shirt,” he shouted at Onandagus. “You will have to pay for that.”

  Mormon the Elder signaled for the two men to throw him all the way out. They pushed and pulled him from his seat and threw him out the door. He tumbled across the cobblestones and his fine mica and pearl necklace ripped apart, scattering its many finely chiseled pieces all over the street. He knelt to pick them up and then tried to reenter, his torn shirt exposing pale white skin. Embarrassed, he turned to go while cursing them over his shoulder.

  Gilhi and Barak looked to Mormon the Elder who nodded, and they ran after him. He began running, only to trip and fall in the dirty street. The laughing guardsmen stopped and returned to the meeting.

  After this, the assembly quieted down. Ammaron the Scribe copied everything said to the best of his ability, a pen and ink were at his side and the scroll stretched out before him. A wide brass book was also at his side, the one he had been using to teach Mormon the Younger.

  It was the Book of the Judgments, Statutes, and Commandments. The Judgments were those laws that came down from the chief judge. The Statutes were those which were voted upon by the whole of the Council of Fifty and the Commandments were those which have come down from the Lord God through the prophets. Mormon had to learn the differences between all of these, from even the most obscure of cases.

  “As Chief Judge, I may appoint any to hear this case as I see fit and that shall be our newest, youngest judge, Nemuel,” said Onandagus.

  The young man was surprised but stood up. “I am honored.”

  Stepping down from the podium, Onandagus gestured toward it. Judge Nemuel had only recently started shaving a weak beard, but he had a strong chin. So far as Onandagus knew, he had nothing to do with the Gadiantons or with Judge Hiram.

  “I call this case to order. I will do my duty to God and to the Nephite nation. This case is to determine the possible guilt or innocence of one Gershom, son of Joseph, in the fire of the judgment hall. Nothing else is permissible, save that which determines his guilt or innocence. Accusations of others will only be permitted in the circumstance that the witnesses testify that it was not Gershom who caused the fire. So be it.”

  The case had begun. First, Judge Hiram began with the already well-known story of his own heroism at barely escaping the flames from his ground floor quarters. His green amulet of judgeship swayed hypnotically from his neck as he spoke in condescending tones. He also swung his arms about in exaggerated movements.

  Samson chuckled as Judge Hiram spoke. Several times Hiram turned to look at him and the big man would merely mumble a “Sorry” and sit still a few moments longer before something else would set him off.

  Mormon the Younger watched the amulet and remembered its sway. Judge Hiram was the leader. He caused the fire. “He did it,” Mormon said aloud.

  Samson snorted at that and, taking his thin pipe from his mouth, narrowed his eyes at Hiram. The brutal gaze of the strongman was lost on no one.

  The judge turned to look coldly at the boy but went right on speaking, “As I was saying, and young Mormon must be agreeing with me, I did follow a strange man through the smoke-filled hallway and out to the shed. It was Gershom,” he shouted, pointing at the accused.

  “No, I did not agree with you. You did it, you and another. You called him a fool, he called you master. His name was Thomas,” shouted Mormon the Younger, much to the surprise of his father and Onandagus.

  Samson just smiled.

  “Order, order! You will wait your turn, young Mormon, or you will be ejected,” said Judge Nemuel.

  Mormon the Elder took his son by the hand and led him out of the court. “You will tell me here and now and not in front of those murderers, what is going on? Why didn’t you say anything earlier about this master business?”

  “I forgot most of it as I climbed down the rope. I only remember now because of the green stone amulet, swaying around his neck.”

  “Are you sure? Most of the judges wear those.”

  “No, it was him. I recognized his voice. Besides, how many other judges were even there that night?”

  “I don’t know, but it won’t be that hard to find out once we look at the records of the day. Ammaron the Scribe should have those back at his home,” said Mormon the Elder.

  “He was ordering a man named Thomas to soak the hall in oil, and to find and kill me. I forgot much when I got down and touched the ground,” said the boy. “But it was Judge Hiram who fired the hall, as the one called Thomas chased me up to the top of the tower. We struggled and I kicked him, he fell into the fire to his doom. His bones would still be in the bottom of the tower, whatever is left of them.”

  Captain Gidgiddonah was outside with them now. Wiping away his son’s tears as he recalled his ordeal, Mormon the Elder spoke to Gidgiddonah, “Captain, go and search the ash and ruin at the bottom of the inside of the tower for a man’s bones, maybe you can find something.”

  “As you command,” spoke Gidgiddonah, as he turned and hurried to the remains of the tower.

  Looking his son deep in the eye, Mormon asked, “Can you testify of these things to the face of that man while he is in the same room with you?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good.” He clasped his son and patted his shoulder hard. “We will get these devils yet. Let us go back inside.”

  Judge Hiram had finished his spin on the events and had requested witnesses to testify. Over a dozen men testified that Gershom was the man in the barn. Resting his case on that, he sat down in good spirits.

  For the next hour, Judge Nemuel heard Gershom tell how he was struck, covered with wine and then put in the barn. The accused brought forth witnesses of his good character. Nothing, however, could prove he wasn’t guilty.

  It was deadlocked, when Onandagus himself got up. “If I may, Gershom was seen going from the fire to the barn by one man only, not two or more. We have a witness, young Mormon, who says it was not Gershom who started the fire, but Judge Hiram and another man. But again, we have only one witness for that, or do we?”

  Judge Hiram guffawed and looked annoyed. “If I did this horrible thing, then where is this mysterious accomplice, hmmm young Mormon?”

  “Here!” shouted Captain Gidgiddonah. He approached the podium with a broken, blackened skull and a bent, black-curved blade.

  “That belonged to Thomas, who tried to kill me with it,” said Mormon.

  “I found them without too much trouble. They were near the top of the debris, as if this Thomas fell from the top of the burning tower,” said Gidgiddonah. “This looks like a Gadianton sign on the blade right here. I have this troop of ten men behind me as witnesses, that I, or we, have only just recovered this evidence from the ruins of the tower.” He gestured behind to a dozen guardsmen, who nodded their assent. He brought the blade to Judge Nemuel, who examined it, turning it over in his hands a few times.

  Thinking for a few moments, the presiding judge said, “In light of this new evidence, it is apparent to me that the accused man, Gershom, did not start or cause this fire. At least not so it c
an be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt, as there is only one true witness against him. Neither can I charge Judge Hiram, as there is only one living witness against him as well, unless there is anyone else who can step forward and help determine these matters once and for all.”

  Judge Nemuel turned his full attention toward the formerly accused. “Gershom, it is your right to send charges against Judge Hiram if you wish. If you do not, then this case will be officially closed in relation to the fire, until more witnesses can be found to come forward, which I doubt will happen.”

  There was silence for a few tense moments.

  Gershom looked at Onandagus, who nodded vigorously, then he looked at Hiram who frowned. Lastly, he looked toward his wife and son. “I do not press charges.”

  This brought a loud outcry from both sides. Men shouted back and forth, arguing why it should or should not have been pressed. Hiram’s frown curled into a wicked smile.

  Judge Nemuel banged his staff, ending the case. He stepped down, deferring the podium back to Chief Judge Onandagus.

  Onandagus was visibly furious, clenching his teeth and glaring at the lot of them but he held silent a moment to bang his own staff and declare, “This meeting is adjourned.” He stalked over to Gershom, who sat with his head in his hands.

  “Why Gershom? Why didn’t you press charges?”

  “I am sorry, sir. I could not put my family in jeopardy. Even if we win, we lose. There would be retribution. I must resign myself from your service and I pray that they forget about me when I am gone.”

  “No, it doesn’t have to be like this. We need good men, we need you,” said Onandagus.

  “I want to believe you, but they burnt the hall, they destroyed the temple, and they tried to make it look like I did it. There is no safe place you can give me and I cannot risk my family. I am sorry, but I am done. I resign and will leave Zarahemla in the morning. You are a good man who can do great things, but I am a small man who cannot fight fate. Farewell.” Gershom left with his wife and family.

  Onandagus followed him to the door and shouted, “Gershom, there is no fate but what we make!”