by Daron Fraley
Jonathan looked away, irritated by talk about the scepter and Manasseh’s lust for it. Only a fool would think the scepter could somehow bestow the right to rule all three tribes. The scepter is just a symbol.
He turned back and studied his father’s face. Lines of stress ran deep across Samuel’s brow. Jonathan knew the real reason for Samuel’s unspoken concern. Even though the Gideonites wanted to get their hands on The Thorn, they really wanted Jonathan.
“Father, they will find me eventually.”
“You must leave!” Samuel implored, ignoring Jonathan’s declaration.
Jonathan sighed. Still undecided, he pulled at his beard as he stared at his own dusty and worn boots. Should he run, or should he stay and fight? If he left, would lives be saved? Potential peril lay ahead with either choice.
Samuel exhaled heavily and stepped forward to place his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Please go. All will be well. The One Who Would Suffer will be with us.”
“My place is with you, Father.”
The old judge pointed to the back of the hall. “My most loyal guards wait at the door to protect me. I want you to be safe.”
Guilt filled Jonathan from head to toe. How can I leave? Am I a coward? He watched for reassurance in his father’s face. Samuel’s eyes were moist. Jonathan reached for his father, and Samuel pulled Jonathan into a firm embrace. They clung to each other for a moment. When Samuel released him, Jonathan noticed how his father studied him, as if they wouldn’t see each other for a very long time. Jonathan’s gaze fell to the ground as the old judge’s mouth began to quiver with emotion.
In a stern, yet gentle tone, Samuel again urged his son to leave. “Jonathan, I do not want them to find you.”
His father’s love pierced him to the very center. He looked up from his boots and saw the kindly face of the old judge through his own tear-blurred blue eyes. Then, in his heart, he felt a strong impression. It was that familiar inner voice he had heard so many times before, and it told him he should go quickly. Jonathan didn’t hesitate to follow the prompting. With nothing more than a tender, tear-filled smile to the old man and a squeeze of his hand, Jonathan grabbed his hooded cloak from the table and ran out the back door.
* * *
After closing the door to the palace hallway, three guards entered the room to take their places around the judge, steel blades exposed and ready. The clamor outside the Council Hall intensified.
Samuel attempted a calming smile for his protectors, but sat down on the judgment seat with a deep sigh. He unconsciously tapped the stone armrest as his eyes followed the line of windows high in the east wall. On account of the cloud cover, the afternoon light only cast dim shadows on the vaulted ceiling. The projected mood caused Samuel to wonder if it would be better if he also fled. He mumbled to himself, but his guards remained at attention. I must stay. I must try to convince the Gideonites.
The front doors burst open with such force that dust fell from the plastered timbers above him. He watched with horror as a contingent of kneeling archers on the porch killed his armed guards with a single volley. Five other soldiers wearing the Mark of the Raven stomped into the room, dragging between them a beaten and bloody palace guard. One of them slammed the doors shut while the rest of the soldiers dropped their captive to the floor in front of Samuel. The Danielite soldier appeared to be dead. Samuel realized the battle was now lost, and his left hand trembled.
The judge suppressed his anxiety by gripping the armrests of the judgment seat so hard, his knuckles hurt. He glared at one of the Gideonite soldiers, who seemed to be the troop captain. The tall, strong man wore polished leather armor and a large leather cap. Both the raven-emblazoned leather breastplate and the cap were lined at the edges with lamb’s wool, dyed red. Samuel’s face contorted in disgust. The wool had been purposely colored, not with dye, but with blood.
“Where is it?” the Gideonite leader barked while slapping the blade of his drawn sword against his thigh.
“You’re too late. The Thorn left with a caravan to the north countries five days ago.” Not very practiced at lying, Samuel sensed from the Gideonite’s facial expression that his ruse had not been convincing.
With upper lip curled, the captain leered at the judge, contempt seething from him. He yelled again, “Where is your son?”
“I told you. You are too late.”
Samuel sat stiff and upright in the seat, not daring to move his feet for fear the Gideonite might sense his nervousness. The soldier who had been dragged into the room groaned, and Samuel felt relief that he was still alive. He glanced down to see who the injured man was, but the guard faced away from him, and he couldn’t tell. Samuel looked back up at the enemy.
The captain’s eyes were devoid of any emotion, and his cold stare spooked the judge. Pulling back into the seat, Samuel tried to put some distance between them, even if it was only a hand’s breadth of space. Without warning, the captain kicked the fallen palace guard in the face with tremendous force, causing the man to cry out in agony. The sound of his jaw snapping echoed in the room. Samuel felt faint.
A sneer bubbled up to the surface of the Gideonite captain’s face, and a single, low-pitched laugh fell from his lips. Samuel exerted all the self-control he could muster to show he wasn’t afraid. He glowered back at the man, who took a small step forward. The fact that Samuel wasn’t cowering in terror appeared to anger the Gideonite.
Within an instant, the captain’s countenance changed for the worse. In a fit of rage, he reached for his belt dagger with his free hand. Now in immediate danger, the judge twisted from his seat, desperate to make his way to the back door. He was two paces from freedom when the Gideonite threw his weapon, striking the old judge squarely in the back. With a groan, Samuel sank to his knees and then fell to the floor, still.
One of the young soldiers said to the captain in some dismay, “This was not in our orders! We were to detain and deliver the judge so the emperor could question him. You’ve killed him!”
“Orders can be changed! General Rezon commands this troop, not the emperor.” One of the captain’s eyebrows drooped as the corner of his mouth twitched. He studied the young soldier. Feigned happiness replaced his disgust. “Besides,” he continued in a sickly sweet tone, “we do not need the old man anymore. Even if we don’t know the identity or location of his son, there is still a possibility The Thorn may be here, and I intend to deliver it to General Rezon.”
The young soldier retreated a few steps.
The back door opened. Another soldier wearing the Mark of the Raven entered. “Sir, all the guards have surrendered.”
“Good,” the captain replied. “Did you find the judge’s son among them?”
“We do not think so, sir. The men of the palace guard insist he left five days ago. He doesn’t seem to be among any of those who surrendered, although we cannot be sure.”
“Question them again! He may be hiding among them, and I want him, dead or alive!”
“Yes, sir!”
As the messenger left, the Gideonite captain began to systematically search the shelves lining the room. With the exception of the young dissenting soldier, the other men joined in, ruffling through the books. Two of the men tore out some of the hand-inked pages, threw them to the floor, and then added the broken tomes themselves to the pile. All but the youngest soldier commenced to ransack the room. They broke, tossed, opened, cleared, and swept every item from every corner of the hall. Each inspected object was hurled into varied heaps on the floor.
After twenty minutes of desperate searching, the soldiers stopped, bored of the relentless vandalism. The troop captain finally noticed that one of his men had not participated in the destruction. He grunted his disapproval.
The young soldier came to attention, but said nothing.
“It’s not here,” one of the other soldiers announced.
“We must get back to the company and report,” said another.
Angrily kicking items from thei
r path, the group hoisted the beaten palace guard from the floor and made their way to the back door. Other soldiers were motioned in to remove the bodies of the guards. The captain pointed to the judge’s body.
“Leave this one,” he ordered. “I want him to stink. Maybe the smell of him will freshen up the place.” Stooping to twist his dagger from the dead judge’s back, he wiped the sticky blade on the judge’s robes before returning it to its gilded sheath.
He cursed as he pushed a large candelabra onto the stone floor, further dimming the available light in the hall as the fallen candles were snuffed. Turning to leave, he grumbled, “I swear, before the sister moons rise tonight, the Danielite captain who told us the judge’s son was here will pay dearly for his lies.”
Chapter 3
Sorrow
Jonathan winced as he stood up in the barn loft where a palace guard had covered him in straw, helping him to hide from the marauding troops. Four hours of squatting under the loose pile had caused his calves to cramp. He wondered if he would be able to walk once he crawled down from the loft.
Apart from some night birds and crickets, he hadn’t heard a single sound for the last half hour. When he first went into hiding, Jonathan heard screams among the other sounds of commotion, but the voices of both soldiers and villagers faded off soon after several men entered the barn with lanterns and led the animals away.
The palpable quiet disturbed him. He peered into the dark shadows below, but saw nothing. With cautious, slow movements, he moved to lean against a support beam where he rubbed each lower leg in turn to get the blood flowing. After some minutes, he felt his way to the ladder. With the aid of dim beams of moons-light coming through the walls, he descended through the dark, again intently listening for any noise around him.
Once on the ground, he brushed the dust and straw from his beard and hair, and donned his gray cloak. He pulled the hood over his head. Large enough to completely surround him, the cloak made Jonathan almost undetectable.
He moved to the large door of the barn, open just far enough to sidestep through. He left the barn and scanned the area for signs of movement. Satisfied there was no one about, he relaxed a bit, but still kept his hand close to the hilt of his sword.
He glanced up and saw that the rain clouds had moved on, revealing a brilliant night sky. The two smaller moons, Jade and Ebony, had risen above the western horizon. Within the hour, they would be joined by the last, larger moon, Sienna. The reflected light from the two moons mingled together as one beautiful lamp in the heavens. Ebony, a shiny charcoal color, and Jade, a deep green-gray, glowed almost like cooling embers. Two days from now, the largest moon, Sienna, would pass her sisters and begin another forty-five days of chasing them down again. Jonathan always enjoyed watching this dance, especially when the great reddish-brown moon would pass behind the others, giving them the appearance of a face.
Wanting to discover as much as he could about the situation in the village before the brightest moon rose, Jonathan made his way along the tall stone fences toward the back door of the Council Hall building. On any other early summer night, dim lights would glow from some of the village home windows, but tonight he saw nothing. Even the upper west rooms of the palace seemed to be dark and lifeless. Hearing nothing but the sounds of night, Jonathan became even more concerned. He quickened his pace to the hall.
Once he ascended the few steps at the outer back door with its connecting passage to the main floor of the palace, he reached into a leather pouch on his sword belt and removed a small piece of rabbit fur. He took from its folds a hexagonal crystal that had the appearance of pure water. Smooth as glass, six-sided, and flat with faceted ends, it fit easily into the palm of his hand. Jonathan rubbed the glow-stone vigorously against the fur, the friction causing the stone to emit a warm, soft, bluish light. With his thumb, he stuffed the fur back into the pouch, then snapped the crystal length-wise into the hollow pommel of the sword at his waist. Half-seated in the silver pommel, the stone still protruded like a short candle in a candlestick.
The glow it produced allowed Jonathan to see a breadth of about six feet in a dim circle before him. To make the light of the half-hidden crystal more effective, he unsheathed his sword and held it by the hilt, with its crystal blade pointed downward. Both the small, charged stone in the pommel and the glow-stone sword blade bathed his feet with an eerie, pale blue light.
Jonathan opened the outer door and put his hand on the edge, then put upward pressure on it to prevent the hinges from creaking. He pushed it wide open, then crossed the dark, deserted passageway to the inner door of the Council Hall. Once again he prevented the door from making noise, but this one he left only slightly ajar as he entered the main council chamber. There he found his father Samuel on the floor, lying in his bloodstained robes.
Squelching a cry, Jonathan ran to his father’s side and took Samuel into his arms. The cold body was heavy and stiff. Jonathan buried his face in the robes and wept. Several times Jonathan laid Samuel to the ground as he collapsed into a sobbing heap, after which he would pound the polished floor with his fist and then crawl back to his father to lift him close again. Tears of intense sadness streamed down into his beard, only to be replaced again with the hot tears of fury. Like water from a vase, his strength poured out until he was empty, and he collapsed.
Some time later when his weeping subsided, Jonathan found himself lying on the floor, staring up at the high windows of the Council Hall where some small amount of moons-light filtered in. Jonathan could feel the shoulder of his adored father beneath his head, and he wondered how long he had rested there. Rolling over onto his knees, Jonathan gazed upon his father’s still features. He bowed his head in prayer and started to speak, his voice cracking into almost a whimper.
“My God. My King. Help me.”
Unable to say another word, he listened. Another tear rolled down his cheek. Brushing it away, he breathed deep and exhaled slowly. Then Jonathan felt it. Comfort, the loving hands of a compassionate God warming his heart as a reassuring inner voice told him all would be well for his people. That singular thought was joined by a very personal promise that came into his mind with even more clarity: he would be kept safe.
Jonathan reached for his father again to pull him into a close embrace. With a gentleness one would have when handling an infant, he then respectfully laid his father to the floor beside the glowing crystal sword. He gazed into the careworn face of the man he most admired in life. Lines caused by time and concern for others furrowed his father’s wise brow. The years of a dignified sojourn in the world flowed around Samuel’s sun-darkened face like the mane of a lion, his silvered hair and beard almost hiding his strong neck. Even now in death and at rest, his father was truly an imposing figure—strong, straight, and regal.
Samuel had been a good man. In Jonathan’s eyes, there had never been one better. He had served the tribe as Chief Judge for just short of twenty years, supporting himself and his small family by his own labors. For this, he had been admired and revered. Samuel had never asked his people to do anything he would not do himself, even during difficult times. He had become a master at caring for his own family while still shouldering the responsibilities of leadership and judgment in serving the people he loved. In fact, much of the weathering of the old judge’s features had occurred during the countless seasons of working in the fields, with his late wife at his side. Samuel was loved most of all, however, because he had much preferred the title of judge to that of king, and had asked the people to address him as such. He never taxed his people for his own support, and never caused them to do evil. Instead, he had taught his people to have faith and hope, all the while remaining obedient to God’s commands.
As Jonathan knelt there studying his father, he wondered why the soldiers had killed him. It was actually Jonathan they wanted dead, he being the last direct heir of the bloodline, for Samuel had no other children. It had been dictated from the time the Original Man left his final prophetic blessin
g upon his sons that Daniel would have the Rights of Judgment. The family of Daniel would rule as judges and kings until the end if they remained faithful. Gideon and Uzzah had both been promised great prosperity if they would support Daniel, but from the beginning, there had been jealousy.
Those born into the Tribe of Gideon, wearing the Mark of the Raven, felt that if the birthright heir of the Tribe of Daniel could be removed—preferably by death—and the scepter fell into their hands, they would have the right to rule. The Thorn was the physical symbol of that right.
Jonathan shook his head in dismay. A simple object, the scepter only symbolized authority and power—it was not authority to rule in and of itself. And yet the Gideonites did not seem to understand this.
Thunk!
What was that? Jonathan jerked to a standing position.
A loud, dull thump came from above him and to his left, in the upper palace. Jonathan thought he also heard a yell somewhere in the distance, perhaps in the palace, but he could not tell for sure. Someone is still here! Jonathan whisked his blade from the smooth, polished floor.
Using the light from his glowing sword to navigate around piles of books, maps, and other items torn from the shelves, Jonathan raced to the stone judgment seat. He sat down, and while stomping his left heel against a small protruding piece of stone at the base, he twisted the right armrest outward. Reaching into a concealed compartment, he removed a cloth-wrapped rod, about seven inches in total length. He shoved it into a pocket of his undershirt beneath the folds of his tunic and cloak, and slid the armrest back into place until it clicked.
Time to get out.
Stepping over the debris on the floor, Jonathan knelt one last time by his father. He hesitated, but knew if he took time to move the body, he might not escape. He kissed his father on the forehead, then made his way to the hallway door, which was still ajar. Not wanting to make any noise by moving it, he squeezed through the opening with some difficulty. As Jonathan stole across the passageway that led to the palace, he peered to the right. At the end of the hall was a large door and a flight of steps leading to the second, third, and fourth floors of the palace. He watched the stairwell, not surprised at the flickers of light from above that dispelled some of the shadow.