to light up the world.
“There was another thing I promised you.”
Abdullah thought, but didn’t answer.
The old man waited, then turned. “I promised, King Abdullah, that I would show you the truth.”
The king thought. Yes, he remembered now, those had been the old man’s words.
The old man pulled out a thin cigarette, lit it quickly, and shoved it in his mouth. “Do you want the truth now?” he asked.
“Of course,” Abdullah said.
The man walked until he was standing right before the king, then smiled bitterly. The brilliant sunlight shone behind him, casting his outline in a shadow that spread across the room. “The truth, my King Abdullah.” His voice was wicked and sarcastic now. “The truth is, my King Abdullah, that I was lying to you then. I promised you everything, but none of it is real. None of it will last forever. It will all come crashing down. We can fight and scratch and murder, we can lie and cheat and kill. We can plot and plan and muster, but we are never going to win. The sun will still rise in the morning. Light will always chase the dark. We cannot win. We never could.
“And that, my friend, is the only truth that really matters. You have sold your soul for nothing.” He stopped and put his arms around the king. “You have sold your soul for nothing,” he repeated more softly. “Now, welcome to my world.”
Epilogue
Mount Aatte
North of Peshawar, Pakistan
The storms came, deep and cold, the clouds covering the mountain peaks in crowns of gray and white. The steady rain fell in fat drops before the temperature plunged to almost freezing, turning the cold rain to thick snow, breaking limbs away from the fruit trees and beating down the wheat under a heavy blanket of snow.
Then the storm clouds passed just as quickly as they had come, blowing north toward the mountains that towered 20,000 feet above the fertile valley floor.
The shepherd waited out the storm from a shallow cave in the granite mountain. As the dark clouds bore down, his hot breath turned to mist and he pulled his leather jacket close.
Glancing to the back of the shallow cave, he watched the young boy sleeping. The child was lying on his side, rolled up in a rough, goat-hair blanket, his eyes fluttering lightly as he dreamed. He was a good lad, gracious and accommodating, deferential and bright. But he was also strong, the shepherd could see that. There was a sturdy will inside him that was even greater than his own.
Was he going to be a child-warrior? The Pashtun didn’t know.
Eight hundred years before, his people had fought the terrible Genghis Khan when the Mongol and his army had come sweeping from the north, killing, eating, or destroying everything in their path. Legend said the Pashtun boy-warrior was only fourteen when he was called to lead their army against the coming hordes. For years the boy had commanded a guerrilla campaign, hitting the Mongol armies in the mountain passes, then disappearing with his soldiers like a ghost into the night.
Some thought the story of the child-leader was just a legend, but the Pashtun shepherd knew that it was real. God could send his warriors. Sometimes he chose the old ones. Sometimes he chose the young.
The tribal leader pulled his worn jacket around his shoulders again, then turned and walked toward the sleeping child. Reaching under the rough blanket, he touched the slender chain on the young boy’s neck. The diamond was pure and perfect, and even in the dim light it reflected a dozen shafts of brilliance. He fingered the diamond slowly, knowing full well its worth.
Kneeling, he lifted the young prince and held him close. The boy squirmed but didn’t waken as the shepherd held him safe against his chest.
From the End of Heaven
From the End of Heaven
© 2008 The Shipley Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stewart, Chris, 1960—
From the end of heaven / Chris Stewart.
p. cm. — (The great and terrible ; v. 5)
ISBN 978-1-59038-858-7 (alk. paper)
eISBN 1-60641-622-7 (eletronic)
1. Terrorism—Fiction. 2. Religious fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.T4593F73 2008
813'.54—dc22 2008008141
Printed in the United States of America
Publishers Printing, Salt Lake City, Utah
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
“The eyes of God and all the holy prophets are watching us. This is the great dispensation that has been spoken of ever since the world began. We are gathered together . . . by the power and commandment of God. We are doing
the work of God. . . . Let us fill our mission.”
—President James Reuben Clark
“Somehow, among all who have walked the earth, we have been brought forth in this unique and remarkable season. Be grateful, and above all be faithful.”
—President Gordon B. Hinckley
Prologue
He sat in the long grass on the mountain’s top looking over the great city. The majestic peaks narrowed to sheer cliffs that fell below him on three sides, their granite faces plunging straight down to meet the foothills mounding up from the valley floor almost five thousand feet below. A gentle breeze blew across the mountain, and he smelled the salt and wildflowers and pine. Away in the distance, the great sea reflected white in the sun, a billion stars of light glittering from the tops of the waves.
He took a breath and held it, then slowly lay back and closed his eyes, his face peaceful and content.
He was happy, yes, but not completely, not quite yet, not even in this place. There were times when he still wondered about those he’d left behind. And when it came to those he loved, he spent many nights on his knees.
Sitting up, he bit his lip. There was something welling up inside him that he couldn’t comprehend. He’d searched his soul, trying to get his mind around it, but it continued to escape him, a shadow he couldn’t see, a fleeting moment of anxiety that broke into his thoughts just enough to jar him and then quickly fade away.
He took another breath. Feeling the breeze upon his face, he slowly bowed his head. “Is there something I am missing? Please help me understand.”
Time passed and he remained motionless as the sun began to set.
He felt the other’s presence long before he heard the soft steps across the grass. Opening his eyes, he stared out on the valley as he waited for his friend. Teancum emerged from
the tree line, his dark hair blowing across his shoulders in the breeze. The first man looked up and smiled. “Good to see you, friend.” He patted the ground beside him, indicating for Teancum to sit down.
Teancum waited, looking on the enormous valley, his hands over his eyes to protect them against the sun. He looked majestic, almost perfect—which, of course, he nearly was. Broad shoulders. Firm hands. Clear eyes and strong jaw. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said as he sat down.
The father tensed, the knot inside him instantly growing tight. He turned away, wanting to hide his concern. “Why is that?” he asked carefully while bracing for the response.
Teancum stared out, his dark eyes focused on the sea. He too was troubled, for the responsibility he carried was a constant, heavy weight. Still, despite that burden, he always wore a smile, a genuine display of the joy inside his heart. This is my work and my glory— that was something he understood. Where there was no work, there was no glory; the two concepts were eternally intertwined. And there was joy i
n their glory. But their world was not yet perfect, and there was still much work to do.
Teancum thought a long moment before turning to his friend. “I’m worried about your children,” he finally said.
The father let out a sigh. “I am worried too.” His face was strained. “It scares me, what they go through. It scares me to the core.”
“It scares us all. We watch them and wonder how they’re going to make it. The enemy is so powerful, he fills almost every heart. But remember, my good friend, you got through it. I got through it. Hard as it was, even we managed to
muddle through.”
The thought of Teancum muddling through anything made the father smile.
“They really are stronger than we were,” Teancum continued, his eyes shining. “They prove that almost every day. They’re more worthy. More prepared and dedicated. Even in the darkest moments, they hold on to the light. The assault they face is constant and there is no relief in sight, yet each of them faces his or her special purpose with such integrity and hope. Their courage is remarkable.” He paused, brushing his hand through his hair. “It makes me proud,” he said.
The father nodded thoughtfully. “They’ve shown great courage from the beginning.”
“Which is why they’re where they are.”
The father closed his eyes against the breeze. “Then why are we so worried?”
Teancum squeezed him on the shoulder. “Because sometimes they need our help.”
“But there is nothing I can do here.”
“I think you might be wrong.”
The father instantly turned toward him. “What do you mean?” His voice was hopeful.
Teancum’s eyes flickered as if with a secret, and then he smiled. “There will be opportunities to help them that we might not know about right now. We have to be ready to do something when the time is right.”
The father fell silent, thinking.
“None of us knows exactly what the future has in store,” Teancum concluded. “But there will come a time when our Father will need you to help them in his cause. Be patient, but be ready. When the time is ripe, I will meet you. Stay vigilant until then.”
“And the people were divided one against another; and they did separate one from another into tribes, every man according to his family and his kindred and friends; and thus they did destroy the government of the land.”
—3 Nephi 7:2
“It is best if an enemy nation comes and surrenders of its own accord.”
—Du You (a.d. 735—812)
Chapter One
New York City, New York
espite all of its grandeur, beauty, influence, and power, it took less than two weeks for the city to die.
For a hundred years it had reigned as one of the greatest cities in the world, a center of business, finance, trade, media, and law. For a hundred years it had served as one of the world’s great cultural centers as well as the home of the United Nations, making it the diplomatic center of the world. One point seven million people lived on the tiny island of Manhattan, another six million within the boroughs, almost nineteen million in the surrounding metropolitan area, making it one of the most densely populated spots on the earth.
Power. Focus. Money.
For more than a hundred years, it had it all.
Pulse. Action. Demands and rewards.
The city was as animate as any living thing: breathing, growing, exerting an undeniable force, never sleeping, always moving.
For a hundred years, New York City had shone as a jewel in the crown of mortal glitter.
A hundred years to reign.
But only two weeks to die. Two weeks to transform into a quivering muddle of death.
He could see that it was dead now—or, if not dead, certainly convulsing in its final throes.
Once the ultimate symbol of wealth and power, the awesome skyscrapers that surrounded him were nothing but empty skeletons, icons of human accomplishment protruding meaninglessly into the smoky sky, old bones jutting from a decaying battlefield, awful reminders of a tragic fall. The streets below, crammed with dead cars and buses and semis and cabs, were ghostly and still, occasional blowing papers and a few ragged stragglers the only things that moved. And there were rats. Lots of rats. He was amazed at how quickly they had scurried from the sewers to reclaim the land. From where he stood, forty floors above the city, he couldn’t see them, but he had been on the streets enough to know they were there.
Drexel Danbert, founding member and senior partner of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs, the greatest and most secretive international government relations firm in the world, stared down on the empty city from his penthouse overlooking the Financial District. The windows around his apartment reached from floor to ceiling, offering a magnificent view, and he leaned his head against the pane as he looked down wistfully on the empty streets below. From where he stood, facing east, he could see all the way down the man-made canyon known as Wall Street to the East River. Left and right, William and Broad streets ran north and south, much broader and more imposing than the narrow street below the window where he stood.
Of the millions of people who used to live around him, few remained. There were a couple of homeless wretches who had chosen to die out on the street, as well as an unknown number of vagabonds each day who crossed the bridges between Brooklyn and New Jersey, looking for food. But that was about all. Everyone else was gone.
Well, not all. There were the gangs. The filthy gangs. He’d heard the reports: the things they’d done, the things they were eating now, some of the things they would do for food.
He shivered as he thought.
This was the world they’d created?
Had they gone too far?
He shivered once again.
Time passed. He didn’t move. Staring out his window at the dying world, he felt the gloomy doubt inside him growing thicker, more oppressive, more sure.
Had they torn it down too quickly? Did those who were left hate each other too much now to rebuild? Was there any hope of reconstruction, or would people accept things as they were? Tribes and bands of friends and families—was that all that existed anymore? In their determination to break them, had they simply gone too far?
Idiot King Abdullah! The old man said that he would stop him, but he wasn’t restrained.
Thinking of the Saudi king, maybe the single most powerful man left in the world, Drexel Danbert shook his head. The king and the man who grew no older might have destroyed their entire plan.
The dark fear grew inside him when he thought of the old man. Who was he? Where had he come from? And why had he betrayed them so?
The Grand Plan had never called for the destruction of his country. Why would they want to rule over a stone-age people struggling through nothing but devastation and starvation? They had wanted to break it, not destroy it. Break the government and people down to such a point that there would be no resistance to the Brothers when they moved in to institute a government of their own.
But, looking upon the dead city, he had to wonder now. Had they taken out too much of the foundation, making it impossible for the U.S. to rebuild?
His partners didn’t think so.
He was certain they were wrong.
He took a weary breath and held it, listening to the silence in his ears.
His penthouse was cool and quiet. No electricity. No running water. No sound of life anywhere. Like most of the other New Yorkers, he had been drinking out of the Hudson and East Rivers, which were toxic with floating filth. Three days before, he had run out of food. A plastic bag had been his toilet, a couple of disposable wet wipes the only way to wash his hands. The elevator in his high-rise was not working, making it a major commitment to go down on the street, but nothing like the commitment it took to climb the stairs again.
He looked down on the death around him and took another breath.
Funny, he thought, why he had chosen to stay.
He could have left the
city; they’d given him plenty of warning. He could have been sitting drunk and lazy somewhere in London, Casablanca . . . even Paris, although he truly hated that pompous city. But this was what he’d wanted. He had wanted to see the end.
The firm had started transitioning its operations to Europe almost a year before, then hurriedly relocated its headquarters to Paris three weeks before the EMP attack. Most of the other partners had already evacuated, except for those who were currently engaged. Some of their most productive partners still worked within the government, and everyone recognized there was important work for them to do. But, like all of the others, he could have gone. He’d stayed, though. When his partners had demanded an explanation, some in angry voices, he hadn’t answered, although deep inside his empty soul he knew.
He was old now. In a few weeks, he would celebrate—okay, observe —his ninety-first birthday, which made him very old indeed. His life was over and he knew that and he didn’t really care.
So he stood alone beside the window, thinking of his age. For a man of ninety-one, he was in remarkably good shape—his legs were a bit arthritic, but his mind was clear and everything else was going strong. Something about the partnership seemed to do that; all of the founders had lived into their nineties, a few even making it to a hundred. They used to laugh at their unnatural longevity, saying it was because they had far too much to live for. But Drexel knew it wasn’t so much what they had to live for as what they feared when they were dead.
Looking down, he stared at the age marks that pocked the back of his soft hands. Despite their best efforts to hold it back, time had moved forward. One by one, the founding partners had passed away, leaving Drexel alone now in the world. He had already outlived three wives, one of whom he had actually cared about (although he couldn’t remember much about how that felt). He had half a dozen children, most of whom he hadn’t seen in years, an unknown number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren he didn’t even know about, let alone their names or genders or where they lived. It was true that two of his sons would soon be partners in the firm, but even they were not close and he rarely saw them anymore. His other children had sensed his evil and avoided him for years.
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