Heroes of the Fallen Read online

  The Lamanite warriors beat the reeds to flush him out. As soon as Uzzsheol appeared, however, they stopped and looked out into the lake. “He has gone into the lake,” Uzzsheol shrugged.

  “We need to find him,” demanded the Gadianton as Anathoth stood by. “Akish-Antum has gone to great lengths to launch this operation. He will not allow it to be ruined this close to the end.”

  “I will bring the tenth man down for the evil eye and kill him,” said Uzzsheol without a trace of emotion. “He will not escape. I will skin him for you, Hadad, to keep you warm on lonely cold nights.”

  The other Lamanites chuckled at this but the Gadianton captain, Hadad, bristled and began to ride away. “Just find him,” he called as he rode off, followed by the other mounted Gadiantons.

  Anathoth and his score of warriors continued up the road away from the lake towards Zarahemla, while Uzzsheol’s wolf-pack of Lamanite trackers remained behind to find the tenth Nephite.

  “Gulam, Paron, Musook,” said Uzzsheol, pointing three warriors to the left of the lake. “Nimrod, Tecotl, Menah,” he pointed to the right and three others raced off. He waded into the lake with a dozen others, his tomahawk raised ever ready for the death blow.

  Amaron went down again and swam for the distant shore. He rose again for another breath and heard shouting. A few arrows flew after him, but in the darkness they missed. The Lamanites would surround the lake and wait him out. His only hope was to reach the opposite shore and disappear into the woods. He swam as if he were on fire.

  The shoreline was thick with trees and shrubs to better hide his landfall. The lake had a few jagged peninsulas of rock near the mouth of a small stream that fed the lake. Making for it in the dark, he had a plan. Every so often he would stop to catch his breath and watch how close the Lamanite torches were to his planned exit. They were slowed by the undergrowth, and Amaron thanked God for small miracles. This had been a wet spring, making the foliage a good obstacle.

  Touching the lake-bottom, he struggled to be silent, walking up the mouth of the stream. He took big deep breaths, trudging out of the mud and onto the sturdy, yet slippery rocks of the creek. He would walk up the stream as far as possible to mask footprints from the tracker. Hopefully, in the dark they would not spot the smudged moss, and they would surround the lake all night, waiting for him to emerge. He slipped numerous times, and this made him feel like a fool.

  The night air was cold, but he knew to keep moving and he would soon be warm. A hundred yards up the creek he moved off the rocks and onto the matted grasses of a game trail. It went up a slight hill. At the top he stopped to look and listen. He could make out faint shadowy shapes running around the shore where he had just been. He had gotten out just in time. Some of the Lamanites weren’t even using torches, they ran back and forth onshore like dogs that had lost a scent.

  Just as he passed over the rise, he heard a bloodcurdling shout of, “Aiyeeee!” They had found his trail, but how? Cursing the gods of the Lamanites he began to run. They must have seen his tracks on the mud of the lake bottom. There was no other explanation. It didn’t matter now. He had only a few hundred yards on them and they weren’t tired and soaking wet as he was. Coming up against a narrow defile, he ran along it in an easterly direction. He could not see the bottom of the gully in the dark. A dead tree had fallen across it just ahead of the next rise.

  Suddenly, the warrior was upon him, crying out and attacking with his scimitar bared. Drawing his own blade, Amaron blocked with his sword on the Lamanite’s arm and then swept upward. The near headless attacker dropped to the ground.

  Another warrior was just as quick with an obsidian flanged club. Amaron let the sword sweep out from his center, and he ripped it across the man’s breast. The warrior stepped back and looked at his own bleeding chest. The wound was slight, a mere scratch, but he howled in a fury. They slashed at each other a few more times until Amaron kicked him, knocking him down just long enough to pierce his heart. Kicking him into the defile, Amaron looked at the dead tree spanning the ravine.

  Testing it for strength, he ran across, just as an arrow struck the tree branch beside him. Turning around and going low, he saw one more warrior with a drawn bow. The Lamanite looked down at the defile and then the tree. Amaron stayed low out of sight and took a rock from the ground.

  He threw it and struck the man in the shoulder, sending him off balance. Amaron grabbed the end of the tree trunk and rocked it so the man fell off into the ravine. It was not very deep, but Amaron heard him moaning down in the blackness. The tree was too heavy to move, so he left it and ran on up a low hill.

  There were few clouds in the sky, making it a chilly night. The hills leveled but the forest thickened. Stopping to gather his bearings and listen for signs of his pursuers, Amaron waited. Hearing nothing but the night, he wondered if he had lost them already. No, that hawk faced Lamanite was too good a tracker. Knowing he must keep moving, he ran for maybe a mile in the moonlight, until he heard the steady tromp of sandaled feet on hard-packed earth—the sound of fifty thousand men marching.

  Amaron stealthily made his way closer. In crossing the lake and running through the forest overland, he had inadvertently made his way back to the road, perhaps a mile or two up from his campsite. He watched from a short distance of about ten yards as a vast procession of Lamanite warriors marched in rows of ten. Someone had organized them like the Nephite armies of old.

  These were certainly more disciplined than the Nephites now. They wore little armor but were very well armed. The foot soldiers carried scimitars, spears, small bucklers of leather, and long knives or axes. Next, a row of pike men marched, these all carrying fifteen-foot pikes and a quiver of a half dozen javelins on their backs. They had short swords at their belts. Then a row of archers went past, their quivers holding at least fifty arrows apiece. They too carried the short Lamanite sword.

  The rows repeated themselves again and again. Judging by their speed, Amaron guessed that a thousand men passed in front of him in only a few short minutes. The groaning of poorly greased wagon wheels broke the monotony of night. The wagons carried enough food and supplies for an army of tens of thousands.

  “Watch and pray,” he muttered.

  Last of the Wilds

  Amaron wondered where to go before the tracking Lamanites could catch up to him when an opportunity came. A swarthy man in a dark robe jumped out of a wagon and walked almost directly towards him, apparently to relieve himself.

  Watch and pray.

  Amaron relieved the red-capped Gadianton of all his worldly cares by breaking his neck. He took off his foul-smelling cloak and put it on himself, but he could not bring himself to wear the hated red cap. He placed it in his pocket, picked up the limp body, slung it over his shoulder, and carried him back to the road and the creaking wagons. He went right up to a slow-moving wagon and flung him in the back.

  The drowsy driver looked back. “What’s his problem?”

  “Too much wine, he went to the woods and fell down. He is drunk. I picked him up before the master sees him,” said Amaron with a drawl.

  “Good, we gotta look out for our own, don’t we?” said the sleepy driver.

  Amaron leapt up to the wagon seat beside the driver.

  The man looked at him. “You’re big enough to hunt bear with a switch. I don’t recognize you. Are you from the Manti order?”

  “No, Zarahemla,” muttered Amaron, not looking the old man in the eye.

  “This sure is gonna be something, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” responded Amaron, seemingly disinterested.

  “Come on. You fooling me? You realize how rich we are gonna be? Sure, Akish-Antum will be king, but the rest of us will still live like kings, huh? Kings among men. And to think my father said that the Order was a bunch of conniving backstabbers, said that when I was just a boy you know. He’ll never know just how wrong he was to stand in the way of progress and change that’s coming. Ain’t nothing on earth gonna stop this army, the d
ays of the Nephites spitting in our eyes is over. We will rule,” spat the man. He took a long look at Amaron. “You say you’re from Zarahemla?”

  “That’s right, been there almost all my life until this.”

  “I guess that explains it, and I thought I knew everyone in the baggage train,” said the driver, turning his attention back to his oxen.

  The bumpy ride was beginning to rock Amaron to sleep. He was exhausted as his eyes shut, he realized that he had now been awake for close to two full days.

  He dozed fitfully for a few moments before rousing himself enough to watch for another spot to leave the road and continue. He wondered if the column would rest any time soon. When it stopped, he would walk out into the bushes, pretending to relieve himself like the Gadianton whose neck he had broken. He should not wait much longer. Someone might try to rouse the man and discover he was dead.

  The pale moon was well into the sky now and threatened to reveal his identity. Too many Gadiantons might recognize him. Watching for a good spot, he was about to exit the wagon when two lanky, shaven-headed Lamanites came jogging up alongside. One carried a torch and the other scanned the ground.

  They stopped a moment at one spot and Amaron turned his face away from them. His wagon creaked by them ever so slowly.

  A horseman rode up and stopped beside the trackers. “What is it? What are you searching for now?” he bellowed. Amaron recognized the voice as the bearded captain, Hadad, from earlier.

  “The Nephite swam the lake, he crawled upstream, very sneaky. We found one set of tracks, he is running through the woods. He found road, he found army. He marches with them now. We look for where he leaves road,” said one of the lean trackers. His broken speech belied his utter disdain for all things Nephite.

  “Impossible,” snarled the Gadianton. “Where is Uzzsheol?”

  “Here.” The tall warrior with the savage hawk face walked up silent as a ghost.

  “How could a Nephite march with the army? He would stick out like a Lemuelite tongue. We would spot him,” said Hadad.

  “No. You are a fool, Hadad,” snapped Uzzsheol in his barbarous accent. “One man walked into the woods to make waters, the Nephite warrior struck him down, carried him to the marchers. He is in disguise, even now. You have too many men for us to search everyone. He’ll probably leave the road soon, we’ll find him.”

  Amaron could faintly hear Uzzsheol’s words as the wagon creaked out of earshot. Now he knew they were watching for a sign of his leaving the road. He must come up with another plan. The two tracking Lamanites continued up the road, watching for a sign as they outdistanced the wagons. Uzzsheol and the Gadianton captain stopped and talked as the wagons disappeared around the bend.

  Spying a good spot, Amaron was about to leap off the wagon onto some gray stones. The old man driving the oxen did not seem to be aware. He could not tell them anything, just a man, big enough to hunt bear with a switch.

  “What are you doing? We are about to stop for the night. Just wait, and we can have another drink,” said the driver. He must have thought Amaron wanted to dip into the wine vats in the back.

  In a short moment the column stopped and the driver, like all the other wagons, prodded the draft animals to the far side of the road. Lamanite warriors milled about everywhere, sitting down against trees or stones, anywhere to rest their feet. Many took off their sandals and caressed their swollen toes. Considering how many had been tracking him at the lakeshore, Amaron guessed more were still behind him watching the sides of the road.

  “Come on then, quit dawdling,” said the old man. “Let him sleep,” he pointed at the broken-necked man. “You carry the barrel for the command tent. I gotta feed the oxen.” He motioned to the wine barrels in the back. “Get going.”

  Amaron picked up a barrel, heavy and full. “Where is the command tent?”

  Scowling, the old man looked at him like he was the biggest fool he had ever seen. “Look at that, big as a church and empty as one too. Right where it always is, almost at the head of the column. Hurry up! You are keeping ‘em waiting, hurry!” shouted the old man at the last.

  With the barrel over his shoulder, Amaron kept his head down and walked down the road towards the front. He could not reasonably leave the road anywhere along the way now, Lamanite warriors surrounded him, dozens thick, all staring greedily at the barrel of wine. After almost a half mile, he saw several tents up ahead, looking regal and fine with expensive trim and ornaments.

  Hoping he might leave the barrel and fade away into the night, Amaron brazenly decided to try and give it to the first servant he could. “Here is the wine for the masters,” he said to a swarthy, bald man.

  “You fool! Do you not know the second-in-command when you see him?” snarled Teth-Senkhet.

  “A thousand pardons, your eminence,” said Amaron.

  “Take it inside,” said Teth-Senkhet, gesturing to the largest maroon tent.

  Amaron complied, and Teth-Senkhet followed behind, gesturing again toward the rear of the tent. A serving girl was slicing joints of meat and heaping them on silver plates.

  “Can I leave this with you?” Amaron asked her.

  “Do I look like I can pick that up?” she said, not looking at him.

  “Well no, but I have to go.”

  “You are here to give them wine, don’t try and add to my duties. I have enough to do, thank you very much. And try and touch me again and I’ll stick this knife in your gullet.”

  “I didn’t touch you. Where are the cups?”

  “The goblets are in that chest, just like they always are, you should know that.” She finally looked at him. “Who are you? You’re not the usual slug. Where is Samos? Not that I care.”

  “He had to take a needed rest. Do I have to serve them?”

  “Yes, you do. I am giving them the meal, you give the wine.”

  He pulled the goblets from the ornate chest and looked over to see how many were needed. The girl glanced back at him and signaled for seven. Pulling out seven goblets, he gingerly filled them, sloshing a bit of wine onto the swept dirt floor of the tent.

  Amaron gazed at the seven seated men. The fine black-cloaked Gadiantons with their weapons of steel or exalted copper, the Lamanite prince in ridiculous feathered headdress and crown, and the shrewd Ishmaelite general with roving eyes taking in the others. Amaron could see that they did not like or even trust one another.

  Amaron considered his next move with his sword and hammer hanging at his side beneath the stinky black cloak. His sword reminded him of duty and opportunity. Should he, like Teancum, his ancestor of old, slay these evil men in their tent here and now? He thought of pulling his blades out and slaying them as they sat, sure that he could take half of them before an alarm would sound. He would take the rest afterward, then die a great martyr, a hero who cut the heads from the hydra of evil. First, he would let them drink the wine, then strike as they became preoccupied with the food.

  The Gadianton and Lamanite leaders sat around an ornate table as the girl placed the meat before them. Amaron followed suit and put the goblets beside the plates, trying to look inconspicuous.

  The Lamanite prince sneered at him. “Your new servant stinks, Akish-Antum.”

  The Gadianton Grand Master ignored him, listening to Anathoth explain about the Ishmaelite tactics used against Lemuelite nomads.

  “I said your servant stinks,” said Almek even louder.

  “I suppose your servants are as fragrant as the lilies of the field,” said Akish-Antum laughing, and going back to the conversation with Anathoth.

  Tubaloth, Almek’s lead general was not amused. “We have a standard for those that serve the prince. The Nephite serving girl is almost too much, but your foul-smelling troglodyte is too much. Send him away, I like not his spirit.”

  “Bethia is not my serving girl. She belongs to Anathoth; and she is a fine specimen who knows her place,” said Akish-Antum. “As for my wine-man, Samos does his best.” Noticing Amaron, Akish-
Antum narrowed his gaze. “Who are you? Where is Samos?”

  “He fell ill, I was sent to replace him,” answered Amaron, keeping his head low. His left hand stayed inside his cloak, fingering the war-hammer’s handle.

  “Ill? Samos is a horse, send him here immediately,” ordered Akish-Antum.

  “Yes, Master,” said Amaron, turning to leave. He contemplated wheeling about with weapons drawn and slaying them all, when Uzzsheol entered the tent. His warriors followed close behind. Uzzsheol stared hard at Amaron and fingered his knife.

  Bethia placed a plate of warm bread before Akish-Antum and as Amaron was about to pounce and slay, the Gadianton grabbed Bethia and forced her onto his lap. She struggled to escape his grasp while he laughed. “Why so wild? You could be my queen.”

  Amaron could not cut him down without harming the girl. Uzzsheol still stared at him.

  “She is my slave. Let her go,” said Anathoth, cold like the wind of the north-lands.

  Akish-Antum relaxed his grip on Bethia and turned his attention to Amaron in the doorway of the tent. “I said to go and get me Samos,” he shouted as Bethia still struggled.

  Amaron and Akish-Antum locked eyes.

  “I said to let my slave go.” Anathoth stood, his hand on his sword hilt.

  The Ishmaelite captain was fast. If Amaron moved to slay the Gadianton, this man would slay him in turn. The tracker Uzzsheol remained glowering beside him, ready to pounce. Amaron realized there were too many variables to kill the Gadianton Grand Master right here. He stared back at Akish-Antum.

  “Let her go!” demanded Anathoth.

  Amused, the Gadianton, still holding Bethia’s wrist, yanked her toward himself, then pushed her away and laughed. “Relax, Anathoth we are all friends here in this tent.”

  Amaron left.

  “Who was that anyway?” asked Akish-Antum.