“They have been going over the city carefully, learning its alleys and shortcuts so well that they could do their missions blindfolded,” assured Brother Levi. “And Lilith is with them.”
“Lilith is with them? May Baal have mercy on the wretches,” said Abishur.
“Good,” said Hiram. “Our last order of business is to distribute the list of those they are to assassinate.”
“Who is on it?” Levi asked.
“Chief Judge Onandagus, Ammaron the Scribe and his barbaric son, Amaron. Mormon the Wise has just recently vacated his seat as governor of Antum, but it matters not. He is but a thorn. Miriam the seeress, Barkos the fat, Judges Seth, Michael, Alma, Thomas, Pianki, Sinhue, and Sam. All other judges are brothers or can be coerced. A number of the guardsmen loyal to Onandagus—we all know who they are, Gidgiddonah, Lachoneus, Lehonti, and so on,” said Judge Hiram, as he handed them several leaves of paper. The names of men and women for execution were scrawled across it with a rare red ink.
“Is there anything else then?” asked Abishur.
“Yea, there is actually one more matter of business,” said Hiram with a snarl. “Being a part of the Order, we have all taken the oaths, we all bear the scars, we all take risks to get gain and protect one another. Some, like this Ezra, are worse than the dust beneath our feet. They abandon the sacred brotherhood and law which sets us up above other men and betray us. Our Order has existed for all time. Since the days of Cain’s awakening, a Gadianton Grand Master has been on earth to lead and guide us. The Disciples of the Christ,” he spit out the name, “say we have a counterfeit of theirs, but I ask you—whose Order was established first? We all know it is ours. We have all forsworn. We all know the penalties and what they are. Zechariah?”
Zechariah, perhaps the youngest man in the room said nervously, “To have my throat cut ear to ear, to have my belly opened and my entrails thrown over my right shoulder. That I may be unmanned and left to the demons of Abaddon and Asmodeus.”
“Yes, of course... not exactly right, but close enough for this room,” spoke Hiram, cold like frostbite as he stalked about the room. He wheeled sharply, holding a long kris dagger in his right hand. The wavy blades were a favorite of the Order, partly for their sinister look, but also for the horrible cuts they inflicted.
“I have asked you, dear Brother Zechariah, because I knew you would remember our laws and penalties unlike another brother who seems to have forgotten them.” Hiram swung the wavy curved blade under the throat of Brother Levi. “You have been taking riches unto yourself from some of the shops under your stewardship on the Avenue of the Cat, haven’t you?”
“I beg your forgiveness, brothers. I had debts to take care of. Brother Pachus, I trusted you.” Levi stammered, his former arrogant attitude washed away with the sweat of his brow. “It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t, will it? Brothers?” said Hiram.
They looked upon Levi and put their thumbs downward. Hiram ran the knife thrice, enacting the penalties in awful exactness.
“Clean this up,” he commanded Zechariah, as he shook his red right hand.
Road of Destiny
Along the road to the north, Mormon, a great bear of a man, carried his son upon mighty shoulders. Their wagon had broken an axle and the boy had broken a leg in the wreck. Lions had chased off their oxen. The man had mended his son’s leg as best he could, and they continued their journey south, to Zarahemla and the boy’s destiny.
Ammaron the Scribe had promised the boy a good education and opportunities down in the grand city. At the same time Onandagus, the governor and head of the Nephite confederation of cities, had called for Mormon to come and be his advisor of state.
It was the right time for both father and son. Memories of a lost wife and mother were still fresh. It would be a good time to start fresh. The burdens of his responsibilities up north had changed, and Mormon no longer wished to be in such a godless place. Duty, honor, and opportunity all came at the same time, and leaving everything they had in the world behind did not matter in comparison.
What do burnt bridges matter, if you know you are never going back?
Blood Is Blood
Beneath the morning sun, mist cleaved away its shroud over the red, hematite-stained pyramid peaks of Mutula, great capital city of the hoary Lamanite King, Xoltec.
Within the grand hall of the elderly king’s court, came a booming deep voice. “Oh, wondrous ruler of the seven kingdoms, blessed of Baal, Kuhtuli, Taloc, Votan, and mighty Shagreel!” shouted Balam-Ek, the chief high priest.
A thick, stout man, he waved his hands to clear away the heavy incense. The king enjoyed the smell, though there was almost enough to make his concubines choke. “My king Xoltec, most blessed son of Father Laman, I have wonderful news.” The barrel-chested priest knelt and looked up expectantly at his king.
Sitting upon a raised platform, the lean, copper-skinned king slit his eyes and sank deeper into his throne. With a wave of his gold-bedecked arm, he ushered away his two serving girls and motioned his dwarf scribe to approach.
“Do not lie, Balam-Ek. Chief high priest though you may be, it does not become you to lie. Speak always the truth to me. I have already heard how my general Tzominihah was slain by assassins.” The king croaked out the last word.
Getting up, the high priest stood majestic. Strong and stout, he had a wide face surrounded by jet black hair drawn back in a very tight topknot. A short beard came to a sharp point just an inch or two down his chin, done after the style of the Old Ones. Wearing a black cloak and tunic gilded with gold and jade, a brilliant copper face hung upside down across his thick chest. This was the symbol of priesthood dominance over all but the king. “Your Majesty, we have won! The army has taken Lamanihah in a sound victory over your adversary, Madoni. He is slain.”
A thin smile crept over the old man’s face like the clouds parting for the sun. Standing, he cried, “Indeed, it is a good day! I have vanquished the last of the usurpers. We can now look north to Tullan, city of the thieving Ishmaelites and to Bountiful, land of the birthright stealing Nephites!”
“Yes, your majesty,” chimed in a narrow courtesan.
Sitting back down, the king chuckled to himself as he summoned a slave girl to pour him another glass of wine. “Details, Balam-Ek, details.” He chuckled before he slurped down his deep maroon wine.
“Your general, Tzominihah was slain the day before the battle, but Captain Qof-Ayin rallied the men. He and his son feinted an attack on the southern gate while also climbing the northern wall. They succeeded in slaying the usurper Madoni. With the snake’s head cut off, all of Lamanihah surrendered.”
“Excellent, excellent,” murmured Xoltec.
“They have captured many slaves and set apart others for sacrifice. Captain Qof-Ayin and his son Zelph returned just as I came to you, my king.”
Rubbing his beardless chin, Xoltec sat and thought a moment. “Qof-Ayin, Old Eyes in the Back of His Head, eh? He will be greatly rewarded for this.” As he finished off his wine, the slave girl came to refill his glass. He waved her off. Looking to the older of his two sons who sat on his right-hand side, Xoltec said, “My empire grows for you, my son.”
Prince Almek, still young, but tall for a Lamanite, stood and proclaimed, “You should have let me lead the army, Father, and then the glory could go to me, your son, instead of going to a dog who has spurned your favor time and again.”
The king said, “Nonsense, Almek. You have not the experience. Besides, war is for warriors, not kings, to fight. Those who command are remembered, those who are commanded are not. Kings rule, warriors but serve. Never forget that.”
“Your majesty,” interjected the priest, “you also wanted some new bodyguards after the last queen’s debacle.” He spoke with hesitation, as if expecting to be struck down for even mentioning the fallen queen.
“Yes, yes I do. I need men I can trust, men of valor and integrity—which we seem to lack here of late. What kind
of woman, who I made Queen no less, who bore my children, would attempt such a thing?”
“Your majesty, she was... touched in the head.”
“Enough!” cut off the king with a wrathful glare. “I don’t want to hear of her anymore, never again, do you understand me? Tulum, write it down,” he barked at the dwarf scribe. The little brown man was surrounded by parchments and a variety of inks to record any and everything the king desired.
“I have the perfect man, Your Highness, a great hero of the battle. He captured dozens and slew Madoni himself.”
The king looked up as he toyed with the neck clasp on his jaguar skin cloak. “Who is he? Where is he now?”
Puffing himself up like a strutting rooster, Balam-Ek announced for the entire court to hear. “His name is Zelph; he is son of Qof-Ayin. Even now, he is with his father training in the courtyard of warriors.”
“Training? They have just won a war for me, and they still train to defend me and bring me glory? Take me to them! I wish to congratulate these heroes and bestow upon this Zelph the honor of being in my bodyguard.” Rising from his opulent throne, the king allowed his high priest to guide him.
Close behind followed the haughty crown prince, Almek, the younger son Aaron, and their sister, the enchanting princess Sayame. Next came nobles from the various houses of the realm, these festooned fellows were followed by an army of retainers. Last came the myriad slaves of all those who preceded them.
Outside, the bright sun had cleared away the mist. The tall, red pyramids cast long shadows on the city.
King Xoltec stopped on top of a broad, open atrium that overlooked the warrior’s courtyard. A tall skinny nobleman took the opportunity to approach the king, his bright purple tunic and perfumed presence announced his arrival before he even opened his mouth. “Rabbanah,” he said, using the polite title of Lamanite kings. “If I might say something not mentioned by the good priest.”
“High priest,” broke in Balam-Ek.
“Ah yes, high priest.”
Sniffing and sighing, Xoltec answered him, “What is it, Tzichak?”
“Rabbanah, thank you. This Qof-Ayin, if memory serves me right, was not he the one who once refused to be your bodyguard himself? A great disgrace.”
“Silence! You perfumed boy lover,” said the king.
Tzichak blushed and grimaced then attempted to slide back into the crowd of courtiers, but the king’s interest was piqued. “Well, smelly, what are you trying to say? Come on, out with it,” he growled.
“Blood is blood, your majesty, and Zelph is his father’s son. They are of the bloodline of that traitor, Samuel, are they not? Samuel, that false prophet who betrayed his people to spread the lies of the Nephite subjugation,” said Tzichak.
The king and his entourage halted immediately. Xoltec spun about and smacked Tzichak across the face, shouting, “Fool! Qof-Ayin is the greatest warrior in my army. He won Lamanihah for me! And do not cast aspersions on Zelph, the son of Qof-Ayin, who could become the next greatest warrior in my army. If there is one thing I trust among the whole of you who trail after me like dogs following a bloody butcher, it is Balam-Ek. I trust the man who kills for me. Balam-Ek knows more than all of you. Was it not Balam-Ek who told me of my queen’s attempted rebellion?”
“Yes Rabbanah, but you must know that it is said that Qof-Ayin and Zelph do not honor nor venerate the true gods. I have heard it said that Qof-Ayin even denies the power of mighty Shagreel and scorns the priests of Baal, even Balam-Ek himself.”
Furrowing his brow, Balam-Ek admitted, “It is true Qof-Ayin has said such things in the past, and he will not attend the sacrifices of Baal or Shagreel. But Zelph is young, only eighteen springs; and we can mold him as we need him. If he is a bodyguard, he will be apart from his father, and we can return him to the priesthood in the true service of the king.”
The old king nodded at the high priest’s words.
“But blood is blood,” muttered Tzichak.
“Away with you, dog!” commanded Balam-Ek. “Look and see for yourself, my king, how even now, after a great battle, they seek not for glory or prize, but train in your service.”
The king looked down upon them, his aged eyes squinting to take in the swift movements. Two titanic figures fought with wooden training swords. The younger man was huge and thick set with strong arms. He stood over a foot and a half taller than his already tall father. His black hair was cut shorter than the Lamanite style, close cropped, sticking up only an inch. The long haired, older man was muscular but much leaner than his son and although not as quick, his sword-craft experience was the greater. Each wore the standard Lamanite warrior’s tunic of reddish brown and sturdy ankle -wrapped sandals. Their feet forever moved as they circled each other before lunging in for a flurry of blows upon one another.
“Look at the size of him. You would think that Zelph’s real father was one of the giants, if they did not have the same face,” said Xoltec.
“The mother then?” offered one of the courtiers with a giggle.
The elder of the two combatants, his hair graying at the temples, spoke softly as they sparred. “Look at them, Zelph. They are watching us. It brings the lesson—the path of the true warrior cannot be learned through pointless contests or sparring to impress someone else. It can only be fully understood when one’s own death is possible.”
The wooden training swords hammered at one another. As Zelph lunged and swept his sword across and low, his father leapt over it and tapped his own blade lithely across his son’s left shoulder. “You must always train with both hands. If this were real, you would have lost use of your left arm. Now switch,” said Qof-Ayin.
Letting go with his left and pressing the attack further with his right, Zelph charged ahead, while Qof-Ayin continued, “The purpose of the warrior’s path is to win. There can be nothing else. When it is time to fight, to attack, it must be with full resolve. Be sure of yourself. There is but one purpose, nothing else...to destroy your enemy!” He slammed a flurry of lightning quick blows down upon the now singly held weapon. Zelph had to step back a pace or two on the defensive.
“When the time comes and you are contained and on the defensive, you must summon up strength from within yourself, the power of the will to explode into your enemy quickly and with true purpose. Think only of destroying them by any means necessary,” said Qof-Ayin.
Ceasing his retreat, Zelph attacked, ferocious as a cornered dragon. He hammered the swift strokes like a beating drum, though Qof-Ayin blocked his strikes time and again.
“You are obligated to the attack. You are only to draw your sword when you mean to use it. The path is not a game. The only reason to draw your sword is to cut the enemy down. You must continue the attack,” he said, as Zelph slowed to listen. “Not doing so is practicing hesitation, which even for a moment allows an enemy the opportunity to defeat you.” The older man’s grace and fluidity with a blade was remarkable. He could almost dance around his son’s defenses. Zelph parried and pressed the attack again, now pushing Qof-Ayin onto the defensive.
“Good. The true path of the warrior does not allow you to be inferior to anyone. You are the best and will win, or you are not, and you will die.” Trading positions yet again, Qof-Ayin slapped Zelph across the leg and almost tripped him. The quick older man brought his wooden sword down and Zelph narrowly blocked it, but the elder had overextended his balance ever so slightly and the son knew it. Heaving the crossed swords away, he swept his own dull blade across Qof-Ayin’s chest. The wind was knocked out of Qof-Ayin but a smile beamed from his face.
“Excellent, you have won this time; you are beginning to understand the path. Now tell me the true purpose of mastering the sword.”
The son nodded and bowed to his father. “I understand the necessity in mastering the sword. We master the violence to best combat it. It is the only righteous and sane answer.”
The father nodded. They each drank deeply of the cool water a servant brought from the reservoir.
Another servant put the mock swords away on a rack that held a variety of other exotic weapons.
“Exactly,” Qof-Ayin continued. “The only honorable reason for mastering violence is to abolish it. A warrior must also understand the ways of peace and the arts. To not do so would make one shortsighted and stiff-necked. It would keep you from growing outward. Now, let us see what the king and his pretty birds have to say to us.”
With the tournament over, the king and his entourage came down the broad stone steps in a wide procession of radiant color. Most of them beamed; but Almek, behind the king, frowned.
“Marvelous. Wonderful. Truly, all I have heard of young Zelph is true. I will give you gold and honor for this victory at Lamanihah,” said Xoltec. “You as well, Qof-Ayin. The strategy for the victory was yours, was it not?”
“Yes, indeed it was, Rabbanah.”
Strutting about on the courtyard of warriors, as if it were newly conquered territory, the king said, “I am well pleased. And your son, Zelph... is he now your better on the battlefield as well?”
“Nay, I am not, Rabbanah,” answered Zelph, before his father could speak.
King Xoltec gave Zelph a curious stare. “Still, I am well pleased. Tell me, Zelph, where is your umbilicus buried?”
“Here in Mutula, under the hearthstone of my father’s house.”
“And how old are you now?”
“I am eighteen sun cycles.”
“Good, good. Now down to business. I would have you for my chief of bodyguards. Balam-Ek!” he barked.
The stout priest stepped forward. “Yes, my king?”
“See to both their rewards personally. Zelph, thank you for slaying Madoni. I did not even wish to see the worm grovel in my dungeons I so despised the man.” The king turned and left, his entourage in tow.
Zelph thought he saw Prince Almek turn and give him a dark frown, while Princess Sayame smiled at him. The high priest, Balam-Ek, remained.
“For your services beyond the call of duty, you are each to receive an extra limnah of gold beyond whatever loot was personally taken from Lamanihah,” said Balam-Ek.
Heroes of the Fallen Page 3
