Heroes of the Fallen Page 17

Nephites were the vile cousins who would destroy them if given a chance. His father had taught him from an early age to “strike first, strike hard, and strike deadly, before the Nephites kill you and everyone you love. It is part of their treacherous, deceitful nature. It is in their blood. They hunger for power. Never give up your freedom, my son, the freedom to have a family and serve your king, your freedom to be man.” He would never forget the words of his father, though the old man had been dead now some thirteen years.

  But now, Anathoth wondered at some of his father’s advice. Neither he nor his father had ever met a Nephite. They only knew what others said. All his life, he had fought and slain fellow Ishmaelites, Lamanites, and those lowly nomadic Lemuelites, but never a Nephite. If they were such power-hungry demons, why had they never come here to fight? More than ever now, some things seemed untrue.

  The freedoms his father spoke of so passionately were a myth. He and his family served only the king, as it had been since his grandfather’s time. Anathoth’s only thought and care was to his duty and honor. Nothing else existed.

  “Anathoth, can you hear me, my husband?”

  “Yea, my wife, I can.” He put the razor-sharp blade upon a high shelf and walked into the bedroom where his wife, Haza, lay stretched upon her bed. She was breathing heavy, hands clasped across her swollen belly.

  “Squeezing pains?” he asked. She grunted in the affirmative. “Should I send for the midwife?”

  “No, it is not yet time.”

  “Would you like some water?”

  She held out her hand for the hollowed gourd. He gave it to her half full. He admired her strength but did not know how to say it. She was beautiful with light olive colored skin, raven black hair and wide, dark eyes that pierced his soul.

  “Do you really have to go? Does the king not know I am near my time?” asked Haza.

  “Yea, whether he does or not, I was commanded, and I have given my firm, unbreakable oath to him. I will obey. It is my honor.”

  “Does nothing matter as much as your honor?”

  He cut her a sharp glance and came swift to her side upon the bed. “If I had not my honor, I would not be the man you love. I would not be a man worthy of you. I would cease to be.”

  She wiped away her tears. “Why now? Why must you leave me now? It is too close, and you will be so long away.”

  He turned to look at the fast fading sunset with a pained heart. “I would change it if I could, but I cannot. Once I finish my duties, I will ask for a position elsewhere, far from this dark place. Perhaps we could live near Cibola or even Angola.”

  “That is a Nephite city,” she said in horror.

  “Only for now. If things go as the Gadianton-Second claims, we will possess all that land. Surely King Apophis will reward me a governorship over some of it.”

  “I would like that. When you are gone, what shall I name the child?”

  “It will be a boy.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I saw him in a vision long ago.”

  “Our son then, he is so close, so ready to come out and meet his father,” said Haza.

  “How soon?” He rubbed her belly, then kissed it.

  “Within a few more days I am sure.”

  “I am sorry, I leave at dawn’s first light to gather our men from the south reaches and meet with the army of Xoltec the next couple of weeks. I will lead twenty-five thousand of Tullan’s finest warriors. It cannot wait.”

  “What shall I name him? Should he be named for you?”

  “No, Haza, he shall be named after my father, who taught me the best that he could all his days and died with honor. His name shall be Joram. Joram Baal.”

  “It is a good name, a high lord like his father, a general of the king.” She struggled to stand, and they embraced a long tender moment. They were interrupted by a slave knocking at the door.

  “Great General Anathoth, the mighty King Apophis wishes you to attend him immediately.”

  “I come,” was the stern reply.

  As the slave departed, Anathoth went to follow but remembered the knife. As he fetched it, his wife grabbed his hand. Her touch was soft and gentle, but she held him fast. Her deep, dark eyes enveloped his. “Promise me you will be careful. Promise me. I do not wish to raise our son alone, not for all the kingdoms of the earth.”

  Pulling away, he kissed her gently. “I promise. I love you, Haza. I will return tonight, sleep now.” He went into the smoke-filled night. Haza wept at his departure. He could hear her but did not look back.

  General Anathoth had become an important and trusted man of the king these last twelve years but had chosen to live in a modest villa near the city’s center. Walking to the king’s palace was a short route that took him through the wide avenue with its many long reflecting pools. They caught the bright stars on this moonless night and held them in thrall. Staring into them, with the vast dark pyramids behind, he thought for a moment that he was floating in the sky, rising far from this place. Tullan did not feel like home anymore. He was honor bound to a king he loathed.

  Honor is the man. If you have no honor, you are nothing. That is what his father would say. But did he know who had slain him? Of course, he did, and it did not matter as long as he did his duty to his king, and his son did his duty to his king.

  It was a vicious cycle, an ever-turning wheel of deceit and treachery. Father had served the former king, Apep, for thirty years, long enough to help forge the Golden Empire of Tullan out of the dust and ashes of the past. He was struck down fighting a host of assassins, in falling he slew nearly twenty men. The killers failed in slaying King Apep for nearly another year.

  Once they did, Apophis took the bloody crown from his father’s gory head and put it on himself. The fresh blood poured down his face as he declared a horrible death for the assassins, as well as for his own siblings on whom he lay suspicions.

  Anathoth was among the first to swear fealty to the new king. He slew the assassins, but the younger siblings were still babes in arms and children. He made sure he was busy elsewhere, away from those murders that sickened him. He had sworn to uphold the new king and could not go against him. Not then, not ever.

  To forget, he threw himself into the nobler service of full-time warrior, destroying those he knew would have honest blood guilt, robbers and the like. He spilt many a man’s lifeblood upon his blade and thanked the great nameless spirit that none were innocent. That was the very problem with the war with the Nephites. He had never met one.

  Many times, he ranged over the red horizon and beyond the borders of Tullan where he could see distant white cities of the plain, cities he had been forbidden to enter. There had been some half-caste adventurers of Nephite or Zoramite blood who had come to Tullan, but these lived the Lamanite lifestyle and were not good examples of Nephites.

  In all the battles he had fought and won, a belief had crept in that he would be dead by the time he was thirty, but it had come and gone. He found Haza at age thirty-one, she was twenty-three. They would be parents soon, and that changed things. Life was now worth living, for the coming child and for the light in her eyes.

  Haza sang the song of his soul, and this dark kingdom of Tullan stole it from him. Now that he had everything he ever truly wanted, he stood to lose it all in a war of madness. Tullan knew next to nothing of Nephite battle tactics and abilities.

  He would return to take his wife and son far away. Perhaps to the mountains beyond the plains of Heshlon and let the lone memory of this place stand and stretch far away.

  “You were missed.”

  It was the bone-dry voice of Menares, the ugly old priest. His ratty gray hair and big nose stuck out from his face like the splayed branches of a dead diseased tree. The dirty maroon cloak he wore stunk of vile smoke, burned flesh, and singed hair. Congealed gore had stained his hands a dark violent crimson, looking black in the darkness.

  “A general should be with his men,” goaded the priest, with a sardonic smile.<
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  “I inspected the men earlier. Everything is in readiness. My duties to my family were greater.”

  “Greater than your duties to the gods?” he asked in surprise.

  Anathoth knew Menares hated him for not bringing home from battle a share of victims for sacrifice. “I need explain nothing to vermin such as you.”

  Menares’ eyes grew crazed a moment before he contained himself and said, “You are a strange man to be general of all the armies of Tullan, and yet a man that will not sacrifice to Votan is—”

  “Is what?” Anathoth cut him off, an anger building inside stronger than he had felt in years. This man was a serpent on two legs like Belial of old, his presence sickened Anathoth. “Is what?” Anathoth shouted. “A traitor? Shall we ask the king if I am a traitor?”

  “No, you are no traitor,” Menares said, recoiling a little. “But I think the men would appreciate their field commander demonstrating his thankfulness to the gods. We must give the gods their sacrament, their food, our offerings, the blood.”

  Anathoth stared hard at this human rodent, trying to burn holes through his skull.

  Menares continued, “We owe the gods. It is our duty.”

  “I owe your dark gods nothing. They are false creations of stone and fire. I bow to my king and the Great Spirit and none other. I spit upon your vulgar gods of stone!” declared Anathoth.

  “You low-born dog!” the gory priest spat back. “The king has the blood of those gods you revile in his veins. He is the son of Apep and She of the Jade Skirt, the Devourer of Souls.”

  Laughing, Anathoth answered, “We both know his mother was Adah, the favorite concubine, the tale spinner. So, forget this She of the Jade Skirt nonsense. She does not exist and neither do your other gods.”

  Menares’ facial features contorted. “I will tell the king of your blasphemy. You cannot get away with this.”

  “Go ahead, you short impotent mummer!” said Anathoth, loud enough to wake the ghosts on this, the Avenue of the Dead.

  “Impotent! I curse a thousand curses upon you and yours by the power of my dark and bloody gods. A thousand curses! Flee if you will, but I am still here and so is your family.”

  “What did you say?” Anathoth approached in a malevolent stride.

  “You heard me.” Menares drew his small, sacrificial dagger and held it by his side in the fearful manner of one who has never used a blade against an untied foe before.

  They faced one another, studying each other’s intent, their wills clashed in their eyes.

  As Menares drew up his dagger to arc down upon his foe, Anathoth caught it in mid stroke. It was too easy. Menares twisted suddenly to the side, and the blade bit Anathoth ever so slight across the cheek and shoulder.

  Inflamed, Anathoth shouted at him in a tempest of fury, “You are a dead hand, you dream of a night vision by day. You are a starving man at a feast who bites his own tongue to sup upon the flavor of blood. You craven necromancer! To curse me is one thing, but to bring my family into this. For that you shall die!”

  The moon shaped knife met Menares’ belly squarely, and the warrior general pulled it out and to the side. Menares had a look of surprise and despair. His mouth opened and his throat worked a few times before he croaked out, “Heresy.” Anathoth shoved him backward into the reflecting pool.

  The priest splashed ever so briefly and went still in the shallow waters, staring up at his killer and the black star-flecked night. He whispered again, “The heresy, the heresy,” and then was silent.

  Wiping the blade on the priest’s dirty robe, Anathoth put it back in its worn sheath before continuing to the palace.

  Within the opulent throne room, King Apophis sat on his couch of jaguar skins. He wore only his gold crown and a finely spun loin cloth of Zoramite silk. His dark copper skin was offset by numerous golden bracelets and rings. A slave girl fed him grapes, and another cooled him with a magnificent, turquoise fan of feathers. The usual twelve guardsmen stood at their appointed places. They were impassive and seemed to see everything and nothing. Three musicians played a light rhythm of flute, drum, and harp.

  It had a haunting, melancholy feel to it, and Anathoth was surprised that the king would listen to such a piece. He was known for liking loud, bawdy tunes of wenching and battles, not this somber affair.

  None seemed to notice Anathoth’s presence until the king spoke, “Where is Menares? He was to be here with you.” King Apophis stroked the cheek of one of the concubines, and she beamed at him. He looked hard at General Anathoth and waved the girl away with a flick of his gold bedecked wrist.

  “I have slain him for wounding me and threatening hurt upon my family.”

  “For your wounding and your hurt, where have I heard that before,” he mused. “He is dead then?”

  “Yea, he is.”

  “It is just as well, he was a foul man, I could hardly bear the scent of him. Now I will need a new high priest, luckily I already have such a man elsewhere.”

  Anathoth stood still before the king.

  “I care not if you believe, Anathoth. The gods know I don’t either. However, the men do, and I need you to indulge them.”

  “Yes, my king.”

  “Teth-Senkhet, the Gadianton, will travel with you to meet with the forces of Xoltec. He has told me that sacrifices are planned to keep up the blood lust in the men, to increase their appetite for destruction and savagery. As my herald and commander, I expect and order you to be a part of these things. That means you will follow the orders of Gadianton Grand Master Akish-Antum and his second-in-command, Teth-Senkhet, as if they came from myself. Unless of course they seek some way of undermining my power base here. You are the only man I trust enough to discern these things. My other command is for you to make sure that Prince Almek dies before you reach Zarahemla.” He waved the musicians and serving girls away. Only the dozen guardsmen remained.

  Pulling Anathoth in closer to himself, Apophis whispered, “The Gadiantons are not the only ones with plans. I have my own and they depend greatly on you. If Zarahemla can indeed be taken, take it and hold it. If it cannot, then once Prince Almek is dead, return to me at all possible speed. Either way, we will soon be in a great position to rule overall.”

  Kneeling and performing the Henew Rite, Anathoth spoke simply, “As you command, so shall it be.”

  “I thank and bless you, my general. Now go home for one last night with your wife. It will be the last for many a moon.”

  Anathoth nodded. As he turned to leave, the king called again, “And Anathoth, get Menares’ body out of the reflecting pool. I won’t have it contaminating the water and having the troops say it is a bad omen. Everything is a bad omen with those low-born dogs.”

  “Yes, my king. How did you know, might I ask?”

  Laughing, he said, “Ha, my spies see all. Men fear Akish-Antum because they say he hears and sees all with his crystal skull interpreter, Bah. He uses spies, the same as I. Several who served him to spy upon me now serve me instead.”

  “Wise as always, my king.”

  He grunted and said, “Farewell, Anathoth, serve me well.”

  Who could have seen him? As Anathoth walked down the flights of steps, he stared off into the gloomy black. He could feel eyes upon him, watching with a hungry need. He went down the flight of narrow steps while the shadows played tricks on him.

  Anathoth recited to himself silently to renew his oath, his honor.

  King Apophis need not watch me. He is my king and I am his sworn servant. I am honor bound to serve him faithfully and I will, even though I know it was he who slew my father.

  He murdered my father, bodyguard of the king, so that he could murder his own and become king. It does not matter nor change the now. My oath is my oath. My honor is my honor, regardless of whom I serve in this world. I have sworn an oath, I will prevail. Still, I know. Warriors have honor, kings do not.

  Games of Death

  In the weeks that followed, men swarmed to Xoltec’s
capitol city of Mutula. All vied to join the army against their hated, yet unknown, brothers, the Nephites. Flowing behind the tidal wave of fighting men were their families, along with merchants eager for gain, traveling performers, and other camp followers.

  Among these, Qof-Ayin came home as well. None noticed him holding his raw blood- caked side nor the vacant look in his eyes. The poisoned blade of the Gadianton assassins tampered his senses almost beyond reason. Only through sheer will had he been able to guide his horse back home—that and his skill in finding plants to fight the pain and poison. As he rode past the burnt temple of Shagreel, a minor priest recognized him and summoned Balam-Ek.

  Balam-Ek looked over the infected wound. “Can you speak?”

  “Water,” said Qof-Ayin.

  Balam-Ek handed him a skin. “Does this mean that the Gadianton spoke the truth? Are the Nephites preparing for battle against us? Have you seen any of the other spies?”

  Gulping down the lukewarm water, Qof-Ayin coughed once before asking, “Where is my son?”

  “He is in the palace performing his duties as bodyguard to the king, the same as every day. Now, about my questions.”

  “Yea, the Gadianton spoke truth, the Nephites are a wicked people. They need to be taught, and a lesson is coming. The other spies and runners are all dead, their bodies filled with Nephite arrows or copper-bladed daggers.”

  “I cannot believe it. They are all dead? I had not thought the Gadianton would be so correct, so true.”

  “It is so. I could never get close enough to get an accurate account of the Nephite numbers. I was waylaid and imprisoned, then escaped. It will be war one way or another. I know this as I have ever known anything. Now, may I go and have my wound attended?”

  “Yes, yes of course. Would you wish for my man here to fetch you the royal surgeon?”

  “No, my son is a capable field medic. He will do whatever is necessary.”

  “Very well then. I will personally see to it that he comes and attends your wounds.” The high priest left to tell the news to the king and to send Zelph home to his father.