“It seems to me you want to ask the questions then answer them yourself. Maybe I should ask you the questions, so you can give yourself the answers you want to hear! Would you be satisfied then?”
The room broke into uncontrolled laughter, interspersed by whoops and catcalls. Riordan turned to face his fellow councilmen. “I will not be insulted by this— hunter!” he shouted, spitting the word hunter as if a bug had just flown into his mouth. “I demand this man be removed and beaten for his disrespect!”
Chief Councilman Stren lifted himself from his chair, his weary expression betraying his lack of patience. Holding a hand up to silence the murmuring crowd, Stren effectively blocked Riordan from further comment.
“Thank you, Councilman Riordan. Your time is up. I will take over questioning now.”
“You will not!I am not finished with these witnesses! I will tell you when I have completed questioning them!” Riordan barked.
“Councilman Riordan, I am ordering you to sit down. You are finished,” Stren said calmly. “Do it now, or I will have you removed,” he warned.
“Are you insane? This man has insulted this council, he has insulted me personally, and you want to have me removed? And this man,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at Ammon, “is a murderer, and I will see that he is beheaded!”
The word beheaded made Ammon swallow hard. Imperceptibly his hand went to his throat. Yet hope swelled in Ammon as Stren challenged his wily accuser, effectively putting a stop to Riordan’s ruthless interrogation. But when Riordan accused Stren, Chief of the Council, of being insane, he knew the old man had crossed a line from which there was no return. Now the man who had accused him so harshly would pay a heavy price for his insubordination, while Ammon was about to be a free man.
“Guards!” called Stren, motioning the guards forward. “Remove Councilman Riordan and put him in the guardhouse. Hold him there for two days.”
The crowd was so stunned they forgot to murmur. Wide eyes and mouths agape ruled the moment. As the guards approached the humiliated councilman, the crowd silently parted, making way for them. Riordan struggled and shouted threats and obscenities at Stren and to the council as the guards seized him. “You dogs, idiots! You are insane; I will not stand for this!” he roared as he was dragged away.
Once outside, a commotion erupted in the street as Riordan’s sons and supporters attacked the guards attempting to wrestle the old man free. Knives flashed around the badly outnumbered men, forcing them to draw their swords. A defensive perimeter was created by swinging their weapons and circling. The attackers backed away but took turns lunging and stabbing at them. However, after several of those men had received nasty arm and shoulder wounds from the capable fighters, they backed off. As numbers thinned, the guards were able to back safely away with Riordan in tow.
Unaware of what had happened in the street, Stren took over, questioning Abiah. “Son, what did you see? What happened?” he said kindly.
“Thank you, sir,” Abiah responded, then took a moment to gather his thoughts.
“I saw Jotham attack Amom with his knife. Ammon was unaware and unarmed, so he used his pack as a shield. Jotham stabbed at him but missed because of the pack. Jotham would surely have killed Ammon at that moment if he had not used the pack to defend himself. Ammon rolled, then came up with a knife of his own. They fought; it looked as if Jotham was winning, but then Ammon kicked snow in Jotham’s face. That’s when it happened. Ammon came in and cut his throat.”
“I see,” Stren responded, rubbing his chin. “Hethe, is that what you saw?”
Hethe nodded. “Exactly what I saw, sir.”
“Ammon, does what Abiah say correctly represent what happened?”
“It does. Just as I remember it.”
“Thank you,” said Stren, turning to address the council. “See how easy that was?” he said, gesturing with his palms up. This time the crowd remembered to do their job, murmuring with renewed enthusiasm.
Once the onlookers settled down, Stren went on. “There was no need to beat the truth out of these men. In my opinion, we have all the information needed to send a recommendation of innocence to Judge Elymas. Are there any arguments?” Stren looked to each council member individually for confirmation. “No?” He waited a moment longer, then continued, “Let us vote on it then. All in favor of innocence?”
Ammon teetered, his heart thudding in his chest. All five of the councilmen raised their hands, including Stren. Then turning to Elymas, the judge, Stren said, “You have our recommendation. What do you say?”
“I judge this man, Ammon, blameless,” Elymas said without hesitation, then rose from his seat. “Today, Riordan demonstrated a serious lack of impartiality,” he announced. “I have serious doubts about the councilman’s moral character. In my opinion, he does not appear to have the best interests of the people of Erlin in mind. I order that Riordan be removed from the elder council immediately. We can consider his replacement in our next session.
“This council session is closed,” Stren proclaimed.
Blameless! Ammon thought as a wave of relief coursed through his veins. With the council concluded, the crowd began talking all at once, the many voices echoing loudly in the chamber. A throng of well-wishers pressed in on the three hunters congratulating them on the favorable outcome. Ammon smiled and thanked them but said little, preferring to let Abiah and Hethe do the talking. He was looking for a way out as quickly as possible. If there had been a rock to crawl under, he would have already disappeared under it.
Though cleared of the murder charge, Ammon felt ashamed and humiliated by Riordian’s accusations. The old man’s words hit home, he thought, regardless of the trial’s outcome. “This hunter admits to murdering my son and confessed to using his own knife!” Those words echoed in
Ammon’s consciousness. However, Riordan’s words: “This butcher should be beheaded!” stabbed repeatedly at his heart.
Who but me is responsible for what happened on the trail that day? I insulted the boy! None of this would have happened if I hadn’t done that, he thought. And Riordan’s words had an undeniable ring of truth in them—I killed Jotham, which never would have happened if I hadn’t disrespected him.
The commotion diminished as the crowd filed out of the hall and into the street. As the last few people separated and went different ways, Ammon noticed a woman standing alone in the shadows. The healer! He had forgotten about her during the inquest and the promise made to be here for him.
Ammon remembered the woman’s words. “It will not be safe for you. There will be a fight; I can help you—I will nuke them.” But she was wrong about that. There isn’t a fight, Ammon thought. Most people have already left. Everyone is going home. The streets are empty, so why is she here?
The healer had placed herself in a narrow gap between two buildings, where she was barely visible from the street. Ammon recognized her immediately but didn’t have time to acknowledge her as a mob suddenly rounded the corner, heading straight for him. What now? he wondered. Many bore clubs and stones in their hands, leaving no doubt as to their intention. Ammon immediately recognized the gang was there to serve up Riordan’s sick version of justice.
Realizing he was in serious trouble, his heart hammered adrenalin into his veins. The air suddenly became heavy against his skin as the mob approached, and the pressure mounted. Ammon’s first inclination was to make a run for it, but he realized that he wasn’t likely to stay ahead of them for long at his age.
Recognizing the odds were impossible, his eyes darted hopefully to the alleyway where the woman remained concealed in the shadows between the stone walls. Was she there to watch Riordan’s thugs beat him to a bloody pulp, or would she intervene? Knowing she could help if she chose to wasn’t enough to encourage Ammon, although her presence did present an option other than running. With little more than seconds to live, she would have to do something quickly, or it would be too late for him.
With the mob just steps away, the en
tire crowd of onlookers suddenly fell silent, frozen in place as if they had been turned to stone. Ammon had not seen or heard anything happen; the crowd had been silenced and stopped moving all at once. Ammon’s mind raced— What’s going on? he wondered. Ammon noticed some were caught mid-stride, while others were suspended in the air with one or even two feet off the ground. A thrown stone hovered in the air as if hung by a wire.
Ammon stared at the strange scene, bewildered, trying to make sense of it —and then a voice called out.
“Come with me if you want to live,” the woman called to Ammon from her hiding place between the buildings. “Hurry!”
Ammon did indeed hurry, and with every ounce of adrenaline-charged energy he had. His mind raced, his heart pounded, lungs sucked in air, and his nervous system attempted to jolt his body into action. But it was no good; his feet remained anchored to the ground as if they were cemented in place. Paralyzed by what he faced just an arm’s length away, fear held him in an unbreakable grip.
“Hurry!” the woman cried out again.
Still, Ammon did not move. What is happening?! Then an invisible hand wrapped him in its grip, pressing in from all sides. Suddenly Ammon was lifted from the ground, carried away, and deposited at the woman’s feet. Disoriented and confused, Ammon stared up at her questioningly.
“Do you think you can move now, or must I carry you?” Valerie said mockingly. “I can’t keep those thugs still forever! Well, actually, I could, but that would really bother some people I used to know,” she said with a chuckle.
“Let’s go!” She ordered as she turned and began walking away. Ammon’s head spun as if caught in a whirlpool, but he struggled to his feet and stumbled after her.
Moments later, the sound of the mob clamoring from behind raised goosebumps on the back of his neck. But this time, the sound was far different. Rather than the sound of an angry mob bearing down on him, he heard the sound of confusion and fear. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed a crowd alright, but now the mob fought for sanity rather than Riordan’s brand of distorted justice.
“You were right,” Ammon admitted. “I am no longer safe here. I will go with you, but I need to go back home to get my things. I’ll need my weapons, clothes, and a few personal things.”
“I understand. But keep your eyes open. You must realize there is still danger here—I cannot foretell the future! Remember, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. We must work together for our mutual protection.”
“No eyes in the back of your head,” Ammon said, laughing at the unusual expression. “You said that last time.”
“What do you mean, last time?” Valerie said, puzzled, then stopped to face him with hands-on-hips.
“You don’t remember saying that?”
“No, but that’s alright,” Valerie admitted after a moment of reflection. The truth was she only had vague recollections of visiting Ammon in the distant past and couldn’t recall the conversation for more years than she could count had passed by in her timeline.
Ammon noticed how much older the woman appeared than she had looked, which puzzled him as they stopped to speak. Perhaps, he thought,the firelight had played tricks on his eyes. I would have guessed her age to be in the late thirties, but now she has to be at least fifty, maybe sixty. Nevertheless, he saw her as an attractive woman when her eyes were blue.
In his experience, this woman was taller than most, with the uncommon combination of raven black hair and blue eyes. He judged her facial features and appearance to be fairly unremarkable, although easy to look at. Ammon didn’t remember seeing the streaks of grey in her hair or the laugh lines and wrinkles at the corners of the eyes. The softness of her voice quelled his fear of being so close to a witch. Perhaps witches aren’t so terrifying after all, he supposed. At that moment, Ammon felt foolish for ever being afraid of her.
As they made their way toward his house, Ammon remembered the chill he felt at first sight of the blackness in her eyes. The woman’s magic was without question, and what he had just witnessed dispelled any doubts about her abilities. If she hadn’t shown up at the inquest as promised, he would not have escaped Riordan’s supporters. That alone proved her to be a reliable ally, which obligated him to “return the favor,” as she had put it.
Then it occurred to Ammon that partnering with a powerful witch, or healer as she preferred to be called, might be just what he needed. While he enjoyed hunting, the long days of hiking, hauling heavy loads of meat, and long nights in the cold were taking a toll on his body. Aware he couldn’t continue hunting forever, he considered the possibility that he might be due for a change. Having a powerful partner might be a good thing, he decided.
Once they reached his house’s vicinity, Ammon and his new partner concealed themselves behind a stone fence for a few minutes, watching for signs of trouble. Suddenly Ammon felt a shift—a shift in what, though? And he felt disoriented for a moment, along with a strong sense of déjà vu but dismissed it as the after-effects of Valerie’s magic.
“Ammon, we need to move fast and travel light. Only bring what you truly need.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Ammon assured her. “I just need my weapons, tools, some clothing, and bedding. Can you carry a pack?”
“No problem, Ammon,” she whispered from behind the wall.
“How do you know my name?”
“Shhhh! I’ll tell you later,” she whispered, knowing she wasn’t about to broach the subject of time travel with him at this, or perhaps at any, time.
They watched the street diligently for threats, but there was little movement in the area. A woman carried buckets of water to her garden, a dog ambled down the road, a pair of crows landed, then picked at something dead, but nothing else moved. The street was still and silent.
“Alright, Valyri.” Ammon agreed. “Let’s go.”
“Val-er-ee,” she annunciated.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go Valyri.”
Valerie rolled her eyes. “I give,” she exclaimed.
Once inside, they worked together gathering the things Ammon considered essential, stuffed them into packs, and strapped the packs to their backs. No one in the vicinity seemed to notice them enter or leave the little stone house. Soon the outlaw was away with the witch and without a hitch.
Two hours later the pair entered the clearing that was home to Pearse’s farm. Ammon wasn’t sure why, but he was sure something had changed. Having spent a day and a night looking at the place, he was convinced something was different. But what? Then the obvious struck him; last week there had been one house, now there were two. Houses are not built in a week—how could a second house appear so quickly?
“Where did that other house come from?” Ammon blurted without thinking, then realized he had just betrayed himself.
“How did you know that? About the second house being new?”
Ammon’s stomach flipped. Had she seen him watching from the woods? At a loss for words, he looked at his feet and shook his head. When he looked up again, Valerie faced him with hands on her hips and a knowing smile. “You knew I was here, didn’t you?” Ammon admitted.
“Of course I did,” Valerie conceded.
“So how did the second house get there so quickly? Did you do that?”
“We built it two weeks ago.”
“That is impossible. It wasn’t here last week.”
“That’s right. But neither were you.” The moment the words left her tongue, she regretted it. How would she ever explain that away?
“If I wasn’t here—where was I?” Ammon said suspiciously, aware she was trying to keep the whole truth from him.
Uh-oh. Valerie thought. I set myself up for this one, and now there is no escape. Ammon guessed correctly that the building’s appearance involved time manipulation and that I did it. The man might be a simple hunter, but he is no dummy. She admired Ammon’s intuition, but she had painted herself into a corner. Although reluctant to bring Ammon up to speed on her use of time as
a tool, she gave in, deciding she couldn’t hide the truth from him.
“Alright— two weeks ago, the day of the hearing, Riordan’s sons were lying in wait for you outside your house. We needed to avoid them. I had to do something, so I jumped us two weeks into the future. It worked! That’s why no one was there this morning. Two weeks had passed since the inquest. Do you understand?”
Ammon, deep in thought, looked away, stroking his beard as his eyes set on something distant. While Valerie waited for his response, she thought back to how afraid of her appearance Ammon and Hethe had been. She understood far better than Ammon would ever know because she felt their presence long before she ever saw them. She also felt the terror the blackness of her eyes generated in these otherwise intrepid huntsmen.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Ammon admitted: “No, I don’t understand. But I think that was a good idea because it seems to have worked.”
“I’m glad you understand, Ammon—but please do not repeat what I told you.” Then Valerie put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you see? I already have enough trouble with people thinking of me as a witch.” But when she felt the hard muscles of Ammon’s shoulders, her eyes moved to where her hand rested, then darted back to Ammon’s deep-set brown eyes as she realized she had been caught admiring the man and was uncomfortably close. Valerie flushed, then pulled her hand away and backed up a step. Ammon saw it, smiled warmly but said nothing, and the moment passed.
Valerie had expected pushback at the notion of altering time, but Ammon seemed to accept the concept. When he said nothing more about it, she breathed a sigh of relief. Now that it was out there, she had no doubt the subject would come up again and hoped to be better prepared the next time.
Shadows had grown long, and the late afternoon air had already begun to chill as the winter sun sank below the tree line. Ammon looked to the sky to gauge the weather. Wispy clouds scudded across the bright blue expanse, releasing occasional snowflakes in their wake. The night would be long and cold on the ridge, and Ammon expected another cold camp in the snow.
The Rings of Hesaurun Page 30