Heroes of the Fallen

by David J. West

  “That seems like too much to me,” broke in Qof-Ayin. “It is not fair to the men I led that I should be given more. I could not have done it without them.”

  Balam-Ek frowned. “It is your choice to take or refuse it, I suppose, but you would take nothing from anyone living. It would come from dead General Tzomin’s share. You will also be given access to a woman from the king’s harem, a rare privilege.”

  Zelph blushed.

  “That will not be necessary,” said his father.

  “Very well, that is your loss. There is something else which cannot be refused, Qof-Ayin.” The father and son stood with absolute attention to the dark priest. “Times have changed since your younger days when you refused to be a bodyguard. This comes not as a request, but a command. There will be no debate on this and no appeal. You will comply or you will both be treated as traitors. Do you understand me?”

  Zelph and Qof-Ayin looked at each other and then at Balam-Ek.

  “Zelph, you are to be the new captain of the king’s bodyguard. You will be given a room in the palace, as commander of the bodyguard such is your privilege. I expect you to report in three days, no longer. Enjoy your own time now.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Father, have times changed?”

  Qof-Ayin looked away before answering. “When I was young, I refused by convincing Xoltec I was needed in the field much more... to fight and win battles for him rather than standing beside him in the palace all day. He agreed but later felt I had made a fool of him. Such could not be further from the truth. His advisors, a den of vipers, whispered that I had insulted his judgment. Still, he had given me his word and could not go back on it. From then on, he seemed to resent me. It has taken years for him to seem beyond it.”

  They continued to converse in private. “Now, Xoltec controls all the southernmost known lands and has ambitions for Tullan and the Nephite lands to the north and east. He is getting to be a very old man and he knows it. I doubt he truly expects to wage war on the Nephites or Toltecs. Xoltec fears the growing influence of the power-hungry Gadiantons, and he knows that I would never join them, and neither would you, as my son. Therefore, you make a very desirable bodyguard, being incorruptible.”

  “Father, I will not let them change me nor will I forget the many things you have taught me.”

  “The palace is not for you, my son. It is not that I doubt your heart, but I know the many evils of their lives. Tell me this... do you wish to serve him?”

  “I would rather stay with you and serve as a warrior. But if I must do this duty, I will.”

  “Listen to me, Zelph. The palace is more treacherous than any battlefield. The snakes and worms within feed on each other. If any favors you, beware, for jealousy abounds along with all manner of revenge. Many will try to use you, to have access to the king, or hate you for doing your duty. And it is not unheard of for a king to take his bodyguard and his harem with him to the grave.”

  Zelph looked aghast at that.

  “Xoltec is an old man with few years left. I saw how his son Almek looked at you. I fear on his ascendancy, he would do just that.”

  “Is that one of the reasons you refused years ago?”

  “No, I refused because I wanted my own home, not an apartment in the palace. I wanted to be with your mother and you. But most of all, bodyguards are not allowed to have families.”

  Zelph sat down on the cold stone steps. “This gets worse with every moment we talk about it. Let us go home and forget the day.”

  Qof-Ayin put his worn, calloused hand on his son’s shoulder. “I will pray for an answer, my son. I will think of something. Let us go home.”

  “So, blood is blood, after all.” Dark eyes glistened and watched just around the corner. Balam-Ek, the chief high priest, bristled at the thought that these valued warriors had such disrespect for the king’s wishes.

  Returning to the Temple of Baal, he instructed an acolyte, “Watch the father and son. If anything suspicious happens, alert me as well as the captain of the palace guard immediately. You are my eyes and ears. Do not fail me.” Nodding, the shaven-headed priest departed.

  Left alone in his own chambers, Balam-Ek pondered what to do with Zelph and Qof-Ayin. If they refuse the king, he would sacrifice their brave hearts to feed the hunger of Shagreel. He drank some wine from a skin and then he slept.

  “Awake, awake, oh worshipful master!” A strange voice not suited to the voluptuous female figure of his dreams, called out to him. He rubbed his face in confusion and disappointment. Rolling off his reed mat, he groggily answered, “What? What is it?”

  “Master Balam-Ek, there is a dark omen in the sky, a dark star. The king wants you immediately!”

  The high priest roused himself with scented water and donned his sandals. Rushing outside to the palace, he investigated the deep night sky. “How did I sleep so long? What is that?” A maroon and pale golden comet blazed across the southern sky.

  Dozens of priests were in the courtyard, several wailing about the bad omen. Others argued that it was all an illusion of the trickster god.

  “It is like a flaming ear of corn,” said one.

  A flash of lightning came out of an otherwise clear sky and caught the roof of the temple afire.

  “Get to work! Put it out! We cannot have the mighty Shagreel homeless!” Balam-Ek ordered the throng of priests. They ran to fetch buckets of water from the reservoirs, a futile endeavor as the winds flared to feed the flames. The Temple of Shagreel, God of the Sun, was no more.

  Somewhere in the distance, a woman wailed. “My children, we must flee far away from this city. Oh, my children, where shall I take you?” Tales of her lament were told for many days to come throughout the city, and the people of Mutula believed she was the Goddess Zilonen trying to warn them of impending disaster.

  The priests, desperate to take charge, proclaimed the god’s anger at the people for not doing all the priests had asked of them. This backfired, as it was well known that the only structure truly damaged in all the fires and storms was the priests’ own temple.

  Balam-Ek was angry. Why did this have to happen now, when so many things were in motion? He did not want to appear out of touch with the spirit world. But up above him glowed a dark fallen star that seemed to mock him and his supposed wisdom.

  Wolves and Jackals

  The two brawny guardsmen, Amaron and Helam, had little trouble finding where Ezra had gone. Here on the south side of Zarahemla, the more undesirable elements of the city gravitated and congealed together. It was like the dregs of humanity slid downhill into the physical depression of the riverfront called the Bowl, a near lawless stretch of town where anything could be bought and sold.

  Many times, Onandagus had fought to close the whorehouses, gambling halls, drug dens, and lascivious taverns, but to little avail. Few other judges supported his efforts and most guardsmen would turn a blind eye for a small bribe. In years past, honest guardsmen who ventured into the Bowl often found themselves ambushed by gangs and beaten severely, if not murdered.

  As Amaron and Helam approached an infamous tavern, The Iron Rod, they were greeted with catcalls and insults from both the street and balconies.

  “Go away, we don’t need your law here!” called an ugly old woman, throwing trash into the street.

  Helam responded, “Just wait until you are robbed.”

  “Not me, I’m under protection,” she cackled.

  “See, they openly admit Gadianton law. What has this city come to?” he said to Amaron.

  “She is not our concern right now,” growled Amaron. “Our man is inside, according to his sister.”

  “If we can trust her.”

  “We don’t have to... her fear for him was true enough. He’s here all right,” said Amaron.

  A wrought-iron sign hanging out front of the tavern was made to look like an iron rod as understood from the holy book of Lehi, but then it had the voluptuous silhouette of a woman sitting upon it. A man out fr
ont called for any and all to enter. They passed through a beaded doorway beneath the signpost. The scent of cheap incense could not cover the sour smell of sweat, liquor, and vomit.

  A brown-haired, scantily clad girl in green silks welcomed them. “My masters, hello, and how may I be of service?” She cast an especially inviting smile to Helam, swaying ever so slightly as she spoke.

  “Have you seen a young man named Ezra, a short weaselly-looking fellow wearing a brown tunic and blue headscarf?” asked Helam. “Thin facial hair, a little bug-eyed.”

  “Nay, I have not seen such a man,” she cooed. “But give me some coin, perhaps a senum or two, and I will help you look for him. We can start up in my room,” she whispered up toward his ear as far as she could reach.

  “At least someone in the Bowl is kind to us,” said Helam, smirking.

  “Yea, and pure as the dust off my sandals,” retorted Amaron. “Away with you,” he barked at her. Sauntering away, she ignored them and began to ply her trade elsewhere.

  An old man who sat watching near the doorway spoke to them in a friendly voice. “I have a brother in the city of Desolation. He’s a preacher, an’ he says this place is a den of iniquity. But I say, if you don’t like having a little drink once in a while an’ lookin’ at a pretty girl, there’s something wrong witcha.” He laughed and returned to sipping his ale and watching the dancing girls.

  “Tinkling cymbals and sounding brass,” said Helam, “and women offering themselves.”

  Amaron signaled Helam to look around the right side of the tavern as he went left. The Iron Rod was big, full of men and women sitting at dozens of tables. They eyed the two guardsmen suspiciously. The patrons were eating all sorts of spiced meats and drinking the house wines and ales. Small alcoves had private dinners and private dancers. Musicians played bawdy tunes with heavy bass drumbeats. Drunken laughter filled the air as women gyrated on tops of tables.

  They had circled the entire main floor and not found Ezra. Helam frowned. “Did the sister lie?”

  “I think not... there.” Amaron pointed. Ezra descended the stairs with a worn woolen bag over his shoulder, packed full.

  Helam called out, “Ho, Ezra!”

  The thin man looked at the two of them and cold fear washed over his narrow face like a rolling thunderhead. “You have signed my death warrant!” He raced down the steps and back toward the kitchen.

  Helam followed quickly, while Amaron shoved a man out of his way as he too gave chase. The man, falling to the ground, grabbed Amaron’s foot, tripping him. Kicking the man to free himself, Amaron got back up and headed to the back door.

  Turning first to the left, Ezra changed his mind and ran to the right. The indecision gave time for Helam to close the gap and grab him a few paces away from the door. He grasped Ezra’s shoulder, and the skinny man wormed away from him, then wheeled about and struck Helam hard in the face, something the bigger man was not expecting from such a skinny diminutive presence. His grip loosened momentarily, and Ezra ran free again, leaving his bag lying on the street. He didn’t look back.

  “Wait! We are here to help you!” Helam called after him. In the darkness of the Bowl, Ezra either didn’t hear him or ignored him.

  Amaron burst through the back door as empty wine and ale bottles flew toward him and smashed against the outside wall, the good patrons of the Iron Rod wishing him farewell. He scowled at them and put a hand on his broadsword. The bottles stopped coming, and the music of the night began again. Amaron could just make out Helam’s blond hair and copper greaves in the distance. He sprinted after his companion.

  Helam caught Ezra as he attempted to scale a short wall at the end of an alley.

  “Let me go,” Ezra sobbed. “Is it not enough that I am a dead man? My masters have seen me talking to you and the chief judge. All is lost.”

  “We can protect you,” said Helam, gripping his arm like a python.

  “No, you can’t. Most of the judges are Gadiantons and I am a dead man,” he cried. “The sooner the better to them. I who have only ever served them diligently. Curse the gods that brought you to my door.”

  Heavy, quick footsteps caused Helam to turn, ready to face whoever it was. “Amaron?”

  “Yea, it is I.” Amaron came forward., The scrape of footfall behind him sounded and he whirled about. He flashed his sword, Ramevorn, to give space and warning. “Stay back whoever you are. We are on the business of the chief judge.”

  The dark-cloaked and red-capped dagger men drew a step or two closer. They did not respond but spread into a half moon to contain the alley. “He is the one,” said a swarthy looking man, gesturing toward Ezra.

  “What of these other two?” asked another.

  “The traitor has spoken with them, they all must die,” said a throaty female voice from somewhere in the murk behind. The dagger men had short scimitars or long, wavy kris knives drawn, and they began to advance slow and easy, eyeing closely the men they faced.

  Amaron silently mouthed, “Watch and pray,” as he stretched his fingers upon his sword hilt. Helam had a brass-studded cudgel out and swung it round once to flex and stretch his arm. Silent, the dagger men charged. Amaron swung wide and hard, cutting one deep across the chest and severing the arm of another. Helam battled, knocking away heads and hands even quicker than Amaron could cut them. Never one who wished to draw blood or end a life, Helam had become quite adept with the cudgel.

  With the combatants’ attention divided, Ezra sprinted to the wall behind, he leapt up three times before he had enough of a hold to scramble over the top and disappear into the darkness.

  “The traitor is escaping! Get him!” commanded the woman’s voice.

  Amaron slashed two more of the dagger men as they attempted to flank him, roaring at them, “Jackals of Set! You have never before fought a man with his blade ready for you!” Another assassin went down clutching his stump and Amaron cried again, “You dogs have neither courage nor skill!”

  Helam knocked one unconscious with a sound hit atop the assassin’s unprotected head, receiving a small gash on his forearm from the dagger man’s knife as the man went down.

  “Enough,” said the sinister female voice. “Pull back... these wolves of Onandagus are too much.” The six remaining dagger men began to withdraw. They left behind five dead and one grievously wounded on the ground.

  “Help me,” moaned the eviscerated dagger man before collapsing from his wounds.

  Amaron readied to charge after them, his blood boiling.

  “Do not follow us, you lone wolf of Onandagus,” said the woman in the gloom.

  In the faint moonlight, he could see the dark-haired woman’s outline as she faded into the night. “Quickly, over the wall Helam. They will go after him, and we can still catch him.” He moved to the wall and grabbed the top.

  “I can’t,” gasped Helam.

  Dropping down, Amaron came back to examine his wound. “It is only a small cut; you have had worse shaving.”

  “It burns as nothing I have ever felt before.” Helam exhaled deep and sagged onto the alley floor amidst the carnage. “A foul poison, I’m having trouble breathing.”

  Amaron drew his own knife. He cut the tiny wound bigger to let the poison bleed out, then slung Helam over his left shoulder. Sword in his right hand, he moved down the street. Eyes ever upward and forward, he scanned the darkness with rage at the hidden enemies who had done this.

  He went limp, the weight of his body relaxed on Amaron’s shoulder. “Helam? Helam?” Putting his friend down, he felt for a pulse. There was none. Standing up, angry as a heathen god, he clenched his fists and shouted a rage-filled cry of despair.

  He heard someone behind him. Wheeling around with his sword drawn, he slammed the figure backward against the wall.

  Ezra cried out, “Please don’t kill me, you are my only chance. Take me to Onandagus, please.”

  Glaring at him with hate, Amaron removed the blade which left a faint red line on his throat. “Help me w
ith him.” They stooped and picked up Helam’s lifeless body. Amaron carried the bulk of the weight with Ezra leading down the alley while holding the ankles.

  “Who was that woman?” Amaron asked.

  “I cannot be sure, but it could have been Lilith.”

  “And who is she to command dagger men?” he snarled.

  “She is the consort of Akish-Antum, Grand Master of all Gadiantons. She is a procuress, a sorceress who speaks with the dead. A frightening woman, she tortures men for Akish-Antum.”

  “What was on their daggers to murder Helam so quickly?”

  “A poison concocted from scorpions of the west. Out there the scorpion is symbol of the master of the Secret City, the trademark of dagger men from Kishkumen.”

  “Is there an antidote?”

  Ezra was silent too long for Amaron’s mood.

  “Well, is there or not?”

  “No, I am sorry. As soon as he was scratched with that dagger, he was a dead man. I am sorry, eah.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I am sorry,” mumbled Ezra.

  “And I said shut up!”

  They continued down the darkened street until they came to a T where they had to choose left or right.

  “Which way do you want to go?” asked Ezra.

  “You always go right, so we will go left now.”

  “But that is deeper into the Bowl.”

  “Those dagger men are expecting us to go straight to the judgment hall and the safety of Onandagus, so we won’t go where or when they are expecting us,” said Amaron. “Their impatience will make them sloppy.”

  “Where are we going then?”

  “I do not even know yet, wherever I feel the spirit leads me.”

  “The spirit? Which spirit?” Ezra asked.

  “Never mind, I am not a missionary, and this is not the time.” They moved along silently, ever suspicious of shadows, until they reached a wide avenue.

  “Which avenue is this, the Dog or the Ox?” asked Amaron.