The army stopped, and as he took a quick look around, he realized that he recognized the section of forest they were waiting in. The village wasn’t far.
And now we wait, he thought, wiping his forehead clear once more. Wait for word that any advance guards or patrols had been dealt with by the scouts, that the Nephite warriors they were about to face were truly blind to the coming attack.
Thankfully, Kumen hadn’t required Mathoni to be part of the scout’s attack. He’d wanted men who’d experienced true combat, the kind where one man had slain another, to make the removal of the Nephite patrols as clean as possible.
Removal. Clean. Two words that seemed almost … indifferent, really, to what they were really describing.
Nevertheless, I’m glad Kumen let me return to my battle brothers, Mathoni thought as he looked over at Antiomno and the rest of the group. Facing the Nephite warriors with his brothers at his side sounded far preferable to sneaking about in the woods attempting to kill a man before he knew you were there. That he was unprepared for. This? he thought. Real combat? I am ready for this.
He reached back and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his cimeter, feeling the rough leather beneath his grip as he gave the weapon a slight twist. It wouldn’t take much to pull it free—the knots he’d tied were weak, the leather he’d made them with thin and aged, and all it would take to release the weapon was a single, sturdy tug against a knot he’d tied specially for that purpose. Even if he couldn’t manage that, a quick pull of his arm and the weapon would break free of the aged leather. It would be his when he needed it.
The warriors ahead of him began to move forward once more, the faint squish of their footsteps on the damp earth the only sound of their passing. He joined in, tugging his foot free of the cloying mud with a faint but audible slurp and following them. The scouts must have sent the signal. The guards were dead.
Up ahead men began to crouch, and he followed their lead. He could see the edge of the jungle before them, but the army began to angle away from it. Wordlessly, he and his battle brothers followed along. What are they doing? Mathoni wondered. Did one of the scouts see something? Or are we going to split and come at them from both sides?
The edge of the forest was drawing close, bits of grey sky visible through the trees. Once more the army came to a halt, the foremost of them less than a dozen feet from the last bits of undergrowth. The rain was coming thick and hard now, followed by even heavier rolls of thunder. The Nephite village was barely visible through the downpour.
But if we can’t see them, then they cannot see us, he thought. His heart was pounding in his chest, beating a crescendo that matched the falling rain for power and intensity. Any moment now, the signal would be given, and they would charge across the open fields, thundering down on the village with all the power and ferocity of true Lamanites. The settlement was practically undefended, with no walls or other defensive emplacements that he had seen during his initial visit. They would rush over the defenders like a tide and destroy them, and then take what supplies the village held for their own.
They were going to repay the Nephites for every wrong, for every sin, for every slight ever since their forefathers had set foot in the land. For the glory of our fathers, he thought as he reached his hand up once more and gripped the hilt of his cimeter. We will take back what is ours. Our birthright.
Up at the front of the army, just on the edge of the clearing, Kumen rose. Even damp, the feathers in his captain’s helm in disarray, his rising still sent a surge of pride through Mathoni.
Now the Nephites will know, he thought as Kumen raised his sword. They will see our strength.
“Brothers!” Kumen’s voice rang through the jungle and across the clearing towards the village. The sword rose, tip pointing towards the heavens. “Charge!”
The army surged forward in the wake of Kumen’s echoing cry, spilling out of the forest and across the fields with a roar of triumph. Mathoni leapt forward, tugging at his cimeter and pulling it free as he raced across the clearing with his brothers. Their cries split the air, drowning out the rolling thunder and even the constant drum of rain with a sheer torrent of noise. Kumen was still shouting, even as Mathoni passed him by, his sword still pointing to the sky.
“For King Amalickiah!” Kumen was shouting. “For the glory of King Ama—!”
And then Mathoni was past him, his focus shifting back to the oncoming village and the Nephite warriors who were already leaping to its defense. The forward line was already almost out of the fields, an occasional spear dropping from the sky around them as they rushed forward. Several men stumbled and vanished beneath the wall of bodies, spears and arrows finding their mark. Then the front line swept over the first defenders like a deadly tide, the Lamanite army barely stopping as the few Nephite warriors that had been guarding the outside of the village were completely overwhelmed.
He could see Nephites screaming, women and children rushing to get out of the way as the army swept into the village itself. Then there was an answering roar, and Nephite warriors seemed to emerge from all sides, rushing out of doorways and alleys with weapons held at the ready. Some of them wore armor, but many were rushing to the battle in their undergarments, their bodies exposed to the elements.
The line of battle broke, the army going every which way as the various groups of battle brothers separated, spreading out into the town. Antiomno took the lead, pointing towards an oncoming group of Nephite warriors, and Mathoni followed, rushing with his brothers to meet the attack. The two groups swept towards one another, and then everything was violence.
His cimeter shook as he brought it down on a Nephite’s arm, cracking the armor and shoving the warrior’s weapon down and out of the way. One of his brother’s spears tore through the warrior’s throat, and Mathoni pushed away, already bringing his cimeter back up to block another strike from a different Nephite. The blow shook his weapon, driving it to one side and making his hands hurt. His attacker took advantage of the lapse, bringing his improvised club up and slamming it into Mathoni’s breastplate. The wood and cloth took the blow, but the impact still forced him back. His foot twisted, slipping on the muddy ground, and the Nephite drove forward, trying to push him off balance. Mathoni’s cimeter broke the charge at the last moment, the obsidian teeth cutting through the man’s unguarded forearm and stopping his thrust.
Mathoni pushed forward, his feet under him once more as he brought his weapon across to bite deep into the man’s shoulder. The warrior let out a howl of pain as the cimeter tore into his flesh, but to his credit, he didn’t stop. Instead, he reached for his belt with his good hand, pulling out a small, metal knife.
Mathoni didn’t think. Training did that for him. As the enemy warrior lunged forward, putting his whole body into the attack, Mathoni brought his cimeter around horizontally, and the obsidian teeth tore the man’s throat out. The body landed in the mud with a wet smack.
He froze, staring down at the dying man as the last breaths of life gurgled out of what was left of the man’s throat. There was a hideous twitch, and then the body was still.
I killed a man, Mathoni thought in mute shock. I killed him. He’d wounded men before, sometimes terribly, but never killed one. He glanced down at his weapon, at the bright, vivid blood mixing with rain on the dark teeth. Part of him wanted to vomit, maybe shake uncontrollably.
I killed a man. There was a loud voice in his ear, and he shook his head.
“Mathoni!” It was Antiomno. “This way!”
Mathoni nodded, turning away from the carnage to follow his battle brother down the street towards the rest of their group. He’d just killed his first Nephite.
It didn’t feel very glorious.
* * *
They gathered in the center of the village once the battle was over. The remaining Nephite warriors—those who hadn’t been slain in the attack—were arrayed in a line, their hands and legs tied as some of the captured villagers tended to their wounds. The rain hadn�
��t let up, coming down hard enough to wash away the slick red of blood splashed across the village streets. There was a harsh scent on the air, a scent not unlike that of a fresh kill or a wound.
Death, Mathoni realized as he stood there. It was the scent of death.
He glanced around him, through the crowd of Lamanite warriors gathered with him. It wasn’t the entirety of their army. There were still several groups of battle brothers ransacking the village, going through home after home and checking for supplies or Nephites that had hidden from the initial attack. Every so often another band would come up dragging a screaming or crying villager in their hands, tossing them into the center of the village to be accounted with the rest.
They weren’t doing a thing about the bodies of the men that had been slain. Their own or the Nephites. Mathoni could still see some of them from where he was standing, slumped over in the street and sinking into the mud as the blood slowly ebbed from their bodies.
Corpses now. Thinking about it made him want to vomit.
He wasn’t a stranger to death, though he’d never killed anyone before now that he was aware of. He’d injured his fair share of men defending his family’s flocks and crops from those who believed they were theirs for the taking, but as far as he’d known, he’d never killed anyone. Others of his family had, in those same battles … But then battles didn’t seem to be quite the right word for it. And that had been an individual, slain because of a carelessness with which they practiced their larceny.
This … This was not that. This was not some careless act done in defense. This had been aggression.
And now the bodies, both Lamanite and Nephite, were lying together in the rain, mud pooling around them.
They don’t look that different, Mathoni thought as he spotted a pair of warriors who appeared to have killed one another. Both were slumped against the ground, though judging from the Nephite’s final position, he had gotten the better of the two. But in death, their faces still, the pair didn’t look too different from one another.
Save for the looks on their faces. The Nephite looked serene, almost accepting, while the Lamanite—one of Mathoni’s fellow warriors—simply looked fearful.
Why? Mathoni wondered as he turned back to look at the center of the village. What did he fear? Loss of family? Things left unsaid? Undone?
And yet the Nephite warrior had been accepting. It was strange. Then again, the Nephites had always been a peculiar people. Perhaps it was just one more curiosity about them.
The warriors around him let out a loud yell as Kumen strode into the center of the village, his arms spread wide in a sign of victory as he looked down on the captured Nephite warriors. He was grinning, his teeth bared to the world as he turned back to the Lamanite army, jerking his arms and rousing forth a loud cheer from many of his men.
“Brothers!” he called, his voice almost inaudible against the shouting of the army. “We are victorious!” Again a cheer rose up, and Kumen nodded before reaching down to his side and pulling his sword. “This village is ours!” He began to walk across the small square, his sword held lazily at his side as he passed each of the Nephite warrior-captives. Several of the attending villagers moved out of Kumen’s way as he passed.
“And as this village is ours,” Kumen continued, ignoring the Nephites. “It is ours to do with as we please!” He came to a stop beneath a tall pole erected on the side of the square. A banner was flapping from the top of the pole, a cloth banner with words written across its face. Kumen swung his sword against the wood, cutting through the lashings that held it in place. The pole toppled, hitting the ground with a wet slap. He smiled as he walked over to the banner and tore it free.
“In memory of our God, our religion, our freedom—” His face twisted as he looked down at the banner, rage distorting his usual smile, and he jerked at the banner, tearing it in half once and then twice. Then he threw the remains of the banner on the ground in front of the Nephite captives and spat on them before finally stepping atop the pieces and grinding them into the mud with his foot.
“Faith in your God cannot save you,” Kumen said, glaring at the captives, his fists clenched. “You may hide behind your belief in religion to rob us of the right to rule, but it will not save you.”
“We will see,” one of the Nephite men said. He was more securely bound than the others, and sporting several hastily bandaged wounds across his body. “You say that you will rule over us—”
“As is our right!” Kumen shouted.
“—but it will only be if God allows it,” the man continued. “And we will not give up. Not as long as we can fight for our freedom, for our families, we will not—”
Kumen whipped his sword up, a scream of rage echoing across the village as he cut the Nephite’s throat out. Whatever the warrior was going to say ending in a gurgle, several of the captives screaming as he slumped forward.
No one in either army moved. Mathoni felt as if his feet were rooted in the earth. Kumen had just killed a captive. In cold blood.
“So much for your faith,” Kumen said, the last word coming out in a sneer. He spat on the dying warrior before looking at the rest of the captive warriors. “Now, who was your captain?”
One of the Nephite warriors gestured towards the man whose throat Kumen had just cut. “Captain Omni.”
“Oh.” Kumen looked down at the body of the man he’d slain and then lifted his eyebrows in indifference. “Well then, we are ahead of schedule. I was going to kill him anyway.”
Mathoni glanced at the rest of his brothers. A few of them, Antiomno included, wore frowns, or at least looked indifferent to the murder they’d just witnessed, but a few looked enraptured, caught up in the moment.
“Very well,” Kumen said, picking up one of the pieces of the banner he’d torn and wiping his sword clean with it. “You are now our captives,” he said as he sheathed his sword once more. “All of you.” Several of the villagers looked surprised at the revelation, but most of them nodded glumly. They’d already suspected as much from how they’d been gathered. “You will be taken back to our camp, and then taken back to our lands as spoils of war. You will carry the supplies that we find here, and you will do as we say. If you do not …” He gestured towards the dead Nephite captain. “You see for yourself what fate will befall you if you do not do as I or any of my men say.” Then he turned back to the army.
“Spread out!” Kumen ordered, turning his gaze back to the army. “Bring the supplies here, to the center of the village, along with any flocks or pack animals you may find. Do not burn the homes.” There were a few wide eyes from the captives at that, until he explained his reasoning. “We burn it, we make smoke. Smoke that could attract our foes.”
“What about the bodies?” It was Antiomno who had spoken, and as Mathoni watched, his battle brother stepped forward, pushing himself through the crowd so that Kumen could see him.
Kumen paused. “Explain yourself.”
“The bodies of our brothers,” Antiomno said. “Should we bury them?”
Kumen thought for a moment, his forehead creased, before shaking his head. “No, leave them where they lay,” he said. “They are dead, departed from this life to be with the Great Spirit, and nothing we do will change that.”
“They gave their lives for our cause,” Antiomno said. “Shouldn’t we—?”
“They are dead, and we do not have the time to spare to bury them,” Kumen said, his voice ringing across the square. “Leave them and make haste to gather supplies. We will leave before long.”
Antiomno nodded and gave Kumen a slight bow, but the captain had already turned away, his attention on the captives once more as his personal guard began to tie up the villagers alongside their defenders.
“Come, brothers,” Antiomno said as he rejoined their group. “We must do as our captain commands.” The flat tone in his voice was unmistakable. Kumen’s insistence that they abandon the bodies of their own brothers to be eaten by beasts or rot under the sun wa
s sobering.
Such is war, Mathoni thought as he took one last look at the dead Nephite and Lamanite warriors lying in the mud next to one another, both still with weapons clenched in their fists. But then if that is true, then where is the promised glory?
The question stayed with him, even when he and his brothers found a small pile of bags of grain, stored away from the rain in a small shed. As a boy, such a find would have brought him great pride. Even as a man. But now? As a warrior?
He wasn’t sure.
* * *
Despite Mathoni’s misgivings, the feeling in the camp that night was festive, and he couldn’t help but be swayed by it. They’d met their first conflict—retreating from Teancum and his monstrous warriors didn’t count—and emerged victorious. Victorious and with food, wine, and other supplies to send back to their own lines. And captives to bargain with—thought he still wasn’t sure exactly what kind of bargaining Kumen expected to get with a bunch of women, children, and elderly villagers. The warriors, certainly, would be valuable to the Nephite armies as the war stretched on. But villagers? What use could they have in the conflict?
It bothered him as well how willing some of the men had been to take the Nephite villagers captive. On the journey back to the camp, some had even seemed eager to push the captives around, shoving them or berating them for not moving fast enough. Some had even fostered some of their gear off on them, though Mathoni was sure that had Kumen known, he would have chastised them for it. Though probably for different reasons than Mathoni had wanted to. Kumen would have likely been displeased that his warriors were not ready for battle, rather than that his men were using the prisoners as personal pack animals.
Still, despite everything that had happened that day and his own personal misgivings, the mood around the fire seemed welcome enough. The rain had stopped, the sky clearing just enough for them to see the last vestiges of the sunset through the thick trees. And with the supplies they had seized, there was plenty of fresh food to go around, so all in the camp were enjoying a full meal, complete with rations of wine that they’d found in one of the homes. If Antiomno had been bothered by their leaving of the bodies unburied, he was doing a good job of hiding it.
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