Gripping Amaron’s arm, he pleaded further. “Please, please my life is meaningless now. I have no wife and no son. My only family is with you. Ezra, forgive my harsh words earlier, you are trying to right wrongs. Please let me as well. I can fight and shoot a bow as good as anyone. I won’t slow you down much.”
The men looked at one another. It was plain they had their doubts. Reuben was much older than the rest of them, in his late fifties, not in particularly good shape, and he smelled of wine. But they wanted an even ten.
“I say let him join us. Odds are this is a fool’s errand anyway. Why not have an official fool,” said Daniel.
Amaron scowled at Daniel and said, “Reuben, there is no wine here with us.”
“That’s all right.”
“I may need you to shoot and kill a man.”
“If it’s a Gadianton, I will have no problem with that.”
“But not unless I give the order,” said Amaron.
Reuben paused a long time before answering, “All right then.”
“We have a mission, and it is not about your revenge.”
“I understand that. Thank you.”
“Your life still has meaning. This could save thousands of lives,” said Amaron.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I guess we were meant to come here after all,” said Judah.
“There is always a purpose,” said Amaron.
“Thank you again, Captain Amaron,” gushed Reuben.
“Just do your best to keep up.”
“I will. I will remember for my son, so he will not be forgotten.”
“Good. Let’s go then. We still have a long journey ahead of us.”
They marched out the cemetery gates, the guard still dozing. Daniel, the last man in line, splashed his water skin onto the guard’s crotch. He awoke suddenly and tried to stand. Crying out, he tumbled with his legs tied together. “Hey, who are you? Do you have a pass? I am a city guard. You can’t do this.”
The twine was tied so snug that he could not escape without a knife, which he lacked. He was still hollering after them as they disappeared into the tree line. They were too busy laughing to care.
On the Night of Great Fear
Mormon the Younger put down the scroll he was reading and went to the window. He had a room on the tall second story of the hall, but from this window he could see little. Since coming to Zarahemla, he had only seen the main avenue leading to the Judgment Hall.
The surgeon who examined Mormon’s leg deemed it well enough to remove the splints his father had placed upon it almost a month ago. They then blessed him and the leg felt better at once. There was never any doubt in Mormon’s mind that prayer works. His own leg was proof of the Lord’s power for those who have faith.
At eleven years old, Mormon was well read, his mother had called him an old soul. He liked that, she called him many sweet things that he reflected on. She had been gone four years now and so much had happened since then.
Father was made governor of the land of Antum, then resigned two years later after growing tired of the city’s corruption. He had been chief of the city guardsmen for many years before that and said he was able to do better in the field than he ever could as governor.
Then Ammaron the Scribe, his father’s uncle, had come to meet him. He visited them for a week and told the boy of a special duty awaiting him. It was overwhelming at first, this sacred charge set before him, to keep a record of the people, to save it for all time as a witness. Mormon accepted, and soon thereafter plans were made for them to move south to Zarahemla to better continue his education.
His father appearing before the Council of Fifty in support of Onandagus had caused quite a stir. Within a few short hours, riots had broken out in the streets. Rabble rousers, his father called them. Onandagus said it was the king men demanding rights. They cried that they were being persecuted, yet they hoped to tear down the rights and laws in order to establish a king. Others who cared not for king men took to the streets to fight. Thieves and anarchists took advantage of the situation.
Mormon the Elder had gone out into the night with a troop of guardsmen to quell the riots and establish peace. There was no knowing when he would return. A few lit candles gave the boy just enough light to read by as he prepared for sleep. They were dim and near to dying as he yawned and read over a scroll borrowed from Onandagus’s library.
Intrigued by the story, he fought to remain awake and see what happened next. It was an old scroll that had come into the chief judge’s possession years ago from a Greek who had come with Phoenician traders. A tale of Ilian. He read how Achilles had rounded on Agamemnon, lashing out at him, not relaxing his anger for a moment. “Staggering drunk, with a dog’s eyes, your fawn’s heart. Never once did you arm with the troops and go to battle or risk an ambush packed with Achaea’s picked men. You lack courage... you can see death coming.”
It reminded Mormon of his hero, Captain Moroni, who he had read about in the old record of histories compiled by his own great-grandfather Nephi. Though Achilles was no Captain Moroni. The rage and strength of Achilles would be no match for the might and righteousness of Moroni. If he had a son someday, he would name him Moroni.
Another candle died, and the room dimmed. He heard a scuffle out in the darkened hall. A heavy tread of sandaled feet clomped up the steps just beyond his door. Many rooms were in this hallway, but none were occupied. No one but his father or Onandagus should be coming here.
It was not his father, who wore only stout leather boots that left an unmistakable thump as he walked. These footsteps were accompanied by a strange sloshing sound.
Easing off his bed, he snuffed the dim candle and crept to the doorway to listen. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the new dark. Faint starlight and outside torches gave a weak, cold light that illuminated the cavernous hallway, stabbing everything differing slashes of black and gray. He could make out the outlines of the timbers in front of him as well as the stairwell where the man had almost reached the top with a sloshing bag. Pressing himself low to the floor, Mormon breathed slowly through his mouth, waiting to see who it was.
A shadow crept toward him down the black hallway. The man would heft his heavy sack and swing it for momentum, letting it move a few feet as he came down the hall. A thief would be leaving the building, not going farther into it away from exits. As the shadow man neared, Mormon heard the sack making a thick, viscous slosh, like oil. No one transported oil in such a sack as this. The man, breathing hard, was now abreast of him in the wide hallway. He stopped and peered into the darkness toward where Mormon lay on the tiled floor. Mormon whispered a silent prayer for deliverance.
A voice called soft and sinister from farther down the stairwell, “Thomas you fool. You are making far too much noise. I can hear you from downstairs. Lucky for you, Mormon and Onandagus are gone.”
“Sorry, Master,” drawled the shadow man.
The voice sounded familiar.
“Have you taken care of the boy yet?” asked the master.
“No, I thought where goes the lion so goes the whelp,” responded Thomas, the shadow man.
“You fool, the boy’s still here in one of these rooms. Find and kill him.”
Mormon fought to breathe as quietly as possible.
“You don’t think the fire will take care of him?”
“You are paid to do as I say. Yes, the fire will take care of everything, but I don’t want him to awaken and warn anyone from a window. Hurry, fool, and do your job,” snapped the man in the dark.
Mormon heard the quick sandaled steps of the master going back down the steps. But the fool shadow man remained and drew a curved dagger from his waistband. The gleam of the silver blade reflected off the dim light from Mormon’s window. Thomas seemed unsure which room to start with, since there were a dozen in this wing alone.
Mormon fought the panic that threatened to grip him. Thomas chose to begin looking in the room directly to the left. Mormon
backed further into his own room as silently as he could, trying to think of what to do. He crouched in the darkest corner and decided that when the man entered the room to look upon the bed, then he would run out the door past him and down the stairs to the streets.
Mormon’s heart beat faster and faster. He had to catch himself from breathing too hard and loud, bracing himself to run as soon as Thomas passed him. He would be ready for the moment, but it did not come. Thomas did not enter as Mormon had expected. There was complete and utter silence from the hallway.
Mormon waited and waited. The minutes seemed an eternity. It could not possibly take this long to search all the rooms. Ever so quiet, he edged to the doorway to see. Maybe Thomas had left already, or perhaps he was struck down by the will of the Lord for daring to defile the judgment hall with his very presence.
The heavy sack was still in the middle of the hallway with no sign of Thomas. Waiting another impatient moment, Mormon poked his head out the doorway to look around. He smelled sweat and tobacco. He ducked back in the room just as the wide curved dagger arced murderous intent where his head had been and embedded itself in the soft pine door frame.
“I heard your breathing boy!” snarled Thomas, cursing loudly as he realized the dagger was caught fast in the soft pine door frame.
It was now or never. Mormon jumped back through the doorway to run past the assassin. Instead of the clean getaway he hoped for, he was met with a solid kick to the chest that burst the air from his lungs. He dropped to the ground and tried to get his wind back in time to run. Lying on the floor in a daze, he wondered why Thomas had not yet finished him off. The murderer was still trying to retrieve his dagger from the soft pine.
Getting to his feet, Mormon’s now splint-less leg ached from the fall. He was about to dash down the stairs when the master’s voice called again, “Thomas, you fool, must I do everything myself?” The assassin’s master came up the stairs, grumbling oaths to dark gods.
Mormon could barely see him, but he noticed the swaying green amulet and the curved sword in the shadowed hand. Doubling back to run past Thomas, Mormon dodged the wild slash of the now rearmed villain. Running down the hall, he came to the stairs that led up to the tower. Mounting these, he raced for an escape. His eyes scanned the darkness for another place to hide. He could hear his enemies’ voices below.
“Thomas, it’s too late for him, light it all.”
“I can still get him, I want to. Let me, please,” begged the fool servant.
“Very well, but do not allow him to alert anyone. I will start the fire. You have but a single minute, so hurry.”
Mormon could hear the racing steps of Thomas coming up the stairway.
“There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, boy,” called Thomas. “Fire and blood, that’s how you will go. Fire and blood.”
The stairs wound up and up, without a single place to hide. The white stone tower was taller than it appeared from the outside. Mormon was desperate for a hiding spot. Surely a tower like this should have something like the tales of old with hidden chambers and tunnels.
At the top of the interior tower in a small foyer, Mormon spied a short ladder of six feet leading up to the roof. Climbing, he threw back the trap door revealing a small floor and parapet wall. It was square, each straight line facing a cardinal direction. He knew the hall faced due east to the Avenue of the Ram, where the riots were taking place. Guardsmen with gleaming copper armor were down below him on the street. They appeared to be holding a line against a mob of king men. With all the shouting, no one would hear his calls for help. Staring back at the trapdoor he thought of the only viable option and waited.
“Where are you, pretty boy? Dirty old Thomas just wants a little piece of ya,” he laughed. “Come here and get what’s coming to you.”
Mormon could hear that the man had stopped climbing the stairs but could not see him. Suddenly the wide blade arced through the trap doorway.
Mormon waited for the perfect moment before slamming the thick trap door down upon the villain’s head, breaking his grip on the dagger. “Arghh! Libnah take you, boy!”
Mormon grabbed the dagger and, holding it like a snake, he picked the trapdoor up. The pained man stared up at him with murderous eyes. “You broke my hand, boy. I was only funning with you. So, you owe me one, for my hand. Go on, give me my dagger back and I will just leave off now.”
“You will answer to my father and Onandagus. Who is your master?” demanded Mormon.
“Aw, come on now, boy, just give me my dagger or I’ll have to cut your heart out.” He was cut short by the thunderclap and wave of heat and smoke as the fire exploded all over the hallway far beneath them. The smoke and heat billowed out from beneath and over the top of Thomas.
“He’s lit it and damned me!” cried Thomas, his eyes wide in primal fear.
Mormon could see the faint orange glow far below at the base of the stairs.
Thomas making his move while Mormon was distracted, reached over and knocked the boy off his feet. Falling hard on his back, he lost the dagger as Thomas climbed up and out of the tower. Cursing as he bumped his hand, Thomas reached down and picked up his dagger. He moved menacingly toward Mormon. “This is your fault and you’ll be paying.”
Mormon ran about to the other side of the tower. As Thomas tried to cut straight across to stab at him, he changed directions again until Thomas had the trapdoor behind him. Weaving to and fro, Mormon waited until the assassin was in the right spot, and then he kicked him as hard as he could. Thomas lost his balance and clutched in vain at the air. With a second good kick from Mormon, the man fell through the trapdoor hole, hit the floor, and was still.
Putting the dagger on his own belt, Mormon went down the ladder to see if there was any way to escape through the awful smoke and heat. He choked on the smoke billowing up out of the tower as if it were an enormous chimney.
Suddenly Thomas grasped his ankle. “Forget about me, will you? You’re going to go to hell with me.”
“The gates of hell shall not prevail against me,” was Mormon’s sole reply as he kicked Thomas, sending the villain back for the final time into a flaming abyss.
Still trapped atop the tower, Mormon had the best possible view of the riots and his own funeral pyre.
A Devil If I Ever Saw One
Samson followed the caravan route from Gideon to Manti and on toward Bountiful. A tejate serving girl in Manti had been most helpful in telling him where Rezon’s caravan was bound. He slept fitfully in Manti, anxious to keep on Bethia’s trail, but also knowing he needed to allow his horse and himself rest.
Samson knew the roads like he knew the scars covering his body. Early the next morning, he galloped down the main thoroughfare toward Bountiful. He passed through several small towns now laden with costly wares from the caravan.
“Hey, old-timer. Did a good-sized caravan pass through here recently? Led by a man named Rezon?” asked Samson from the back of his horse, the sun looming behind him like a blazing crown.
Shielding his eyes, the old man answered, “Yes, a caravan came through a day ago. The caravan master was a colorful man named Rezon. Why do you ask?”
“I’m looking for a friend,” said Samson. “Thanks for your help.”
“You by yourself? You ought to watch out for robbers. They are thick in these woods as of late.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep an eye open for ‘em.”
Riding as swift as he dared push the horse, Samson found the caravan by late afternoon. A pair of armed horsemen accosted him as he cantered up behind the slow, groaning wagons. One of the men nocked an arrow, the other readied his spear.
“Just hold on there, what’s your hurry?” said the archer.
Samson raised his hands. “I want to talk to Bethia. Is she with this caravan?”
“Bethia? I don’t know any Bethia,” said the spear man. The archer still had his arrow nocked at Samson with a half a pull on his draw behind it.
“You going to put
that down, or do I need to make you eat it? Is this Rezon’s caravan or not?” Samson snarled. He had little tolerance for weapons pointed at him.
“This is Rezon’s caravan, but I don’t know any Bethia,” said the spear man.
“Wait, there was a Bethia,” said the archer, lowering his bow. “She’s not with us anymore. She left back in Manti.”
Urging his horse past them, Samson called out, “Rezon! Come and speak to me!”
“You can’t shout at our master,” growled the spear man, raising his weapon.
Its brazen edge was dangerously close to Samson’s face. A butterfly came and landed on the edge, flitting its wings.
“Aw, look at that,” said Samson. The spear man averted his eyes, and Samson grabbed the spear a foot down from the point with his right hand. He pushed the man off his horse with the butt-end of his own spear. He then swung it backwards, hitting the archer in the chest and unseating him as well. “I don’t take kindly to idle threats,” said Samson, dropping the spear on the ground.
Several men rode up, one wearing a bright colored jacket. “I am Rezon, what is the meaning of this?”
“You had a girl, Bethia, with you since Zarahemla. I want to know where she is.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I’m asking you. I am Samson, a friend of hers.”
“You don’t look the sort,” said Rezon.
“Lord, is this how it’s got to be?” said Samson, looking skyward.
“I may be caravan master, but I am no lord,” said Rezon.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I will not tell you anything about Bethia, so you had best leave,” said Rezon. He gestured to the archer with a drawn bow, on the ground behind Samson.
“Don’t slow me down,” Samson threatened.
“Are you too stupid to see I have an arrow at your back?” Rezon grinned smugly. “You better leave.”
“You can’t put a man up against a wall and not expect him to kick. You gonna tell me where she is?”
“No.”
“Alright, I warned you.” He clicked softly into his horse’s ear. It kicked its back legs at the archer, throwing the man back against the trees, and then it lunged forward. Like a tiger, Samson leapt from its back, taking Rezon down with him.
Heroes of the Fallen Page 20
