Thorns of Glory, page 39
“No prisoners!” snarled a voice. “Slay them both!”
Judged wrongly? Fights with the power of God? Not by any stretch. My skills, my hyper-awareness, the men I’d slain . . . It had prevented nothing. Meant nothing. Arrows were nocked, swords raised. Jacobah and I were about to die.
The jungle erupted. Something larger than any Lamanite burst from the foliage. A tremendous howl reverberated. Lightning ignited my cells. A swath of trees and undergrowth wide as a city gate was ripped out of the earth. A bronze-encased shape—a head!—thundered into our midst. I sucked a breath of muggy air as my eyes focused on a creature I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. A mammoth! Rachel reborn? The idea hardly seemed like a stretch: rifts in time, Gadianton Ghosts, the inside-out carcass of a pterodactyl . . . Why not a resurrected pachyderm?
Nah, this creature was bigger. Childhood memories tended to enlarge things, but not this time. This mammoth was more massive than Rachel by a third. Its tusks, bristling with spikes, swung frantically left and right, skewering warriors, tossing them like ragdolls. It occurred to me: If this behemoth wasn’t Rachel, this interruption was not intended as a rescue. Jacobah and I could be squashed or bludgeoned as easily—
I saw the rider. At first, motion blurred his visage. Marcos? How in—? My cousin Melody’s husband was perched on the mammoth’s neck! Someone sat behind him, hanging on for dear life. A Nephite—an older man—I didn’t recognize.
The Lamanites soldiers fled the mayhem, ignoring us altogether. I realized another man was following, swiping at stragglers with a pair of swords, one obsidian, the other steel. My heart exulted as I recognized him: the Jaredite Pagag!
Lamanites and Lightning Warriors scattered like roaches. In seconds, the space around us emptied of living souls. The mammoth plowed forward, tusks pitching and whirling savagely. Jacobah and I were directly in its path. Marcos shouted into the mammoth’s right ear: “Stop, Muskah! Not them! Friends!”
Jacobah and I hadn’t budged. We stood frozen, stunned. The mammoth halted but not willingly. Its tusks kept swinging as if expecting Marcos to change his mind and permit the slaughter to recommence. Pagag also held up an arm to reassure the beast.
Marcos looked down at us, his gaze severe.
“You two”—he paused for effect. A grin creased his face—“have truly looked better.”
Chapter 14
Apollus
“You must go to him,” Meagan had declared.
“If you don’t,” Rebecca had added, “Moroni will—might—die.”
Those voices continued to ring inside me as I neared the summit of one of the spurs of the western ridge. I navigated the ridge’s spine, allowing me a clear view into the eastern ravine, where children and non-combatant adults resupplied the Nephite soldiers with water and armaments, and an additional view down the western slope, where the Lamanites had positioned their armies. Squinting, I endeavored to grasp the full expanse of the Lamanites’ forces. Smoke and dust smeared the lower half of the skyline, making it impossible to identify the enemy’s flank. Their ranks seemed to stretch into infinity. Those at the front pushed their way up the steep incline, inching steadily forward.
Directly north, poised at an elevation somewhat lower than my own, stretched a narrow, flat expanse crammed with Nephite soldiers by the thousands. Their helmets were carved into hooked “beaks,” painted white, jutting out over their foreheads. Atop this headgear or dangling behind their shoulders were eagle feathers—as many as each soldier could obtain.
I’d learned that in former battles commanded by Mormon, such feathers were hard earned by acts of valor. They were much prized and frugally given. The competition between the two elite divisions—the Jaguars and the Eagles—was fierce.
Such nonsense was part of every army, I supposed. Those of us in the 5th Macedonia had taken every opportunity to out-perform, out-insult, and out-humiliate the “Bulls” of the 10th Fretensis. Standing orders were imposed that if either legion’s soldiers met in public, such as in a tavern or at a satire, the last to arrive must depart or face flogging. Fisticuffs erupted regardless. After an altercation, both sides would claim responsibility as a point of honor. This usually inclined our officers to dismiss the matter, as long as damages were trifling and no one was seriously hurt. This proved convenient, especially since the officers themselves incited the most raucous brawls.
Among the Nephites the practice of earning feathers by acts of valor had apparently been discarded. Now every warrior of the elite divisions festooned his helmet and shoulders with feathers, often intermingled with a hawk’s or another scavenger’s if eagle plumes were scarce. Someone had likely decided, probably in the interim when Mormon had refused to serve as their Chief Captain, that if the Lamanites were customarily affrighted by multi-feathered warriors, well, why not lavishly adorn the whole division? Obviously, Mormon hadn’t noised much of an objection. One more example of lapsed standards.
I’d observed that any spirit of affable competition between Jaguars and Eagles had evolved into a palpable hatred. So-called “brawls” often ended with slain or maimed warriors. Grudges were often settled by gang-style assassination. There was a standing threat that provocateurs would be dealt with by capital punishment, but Nephite soldiers followed a code much like ours, and provocateurs were rarely identified. Suspected troublemakers were transferred to other divisions, a fate some considered worse than execution. In the days leading up to battle, most soldiers transferred out had reacquired their Jaguar or Eagle uniforms and rejoined their old platoons. In the tense atmosphere that presently prevailed, it wasn’t worth rounding up offenders or imposing penalties.
The consequences of this feud were now apparent. Enmity between divisions had opened up gaps in the defensive lines. Mormon’s machinations and booby traps had been evenly constructed along the summit’s rim, but most of them had already been triggered. The western slopes had become littered with boulders and timber, many logs still smoldering. Hundreds, if not thousands, of Lamanites had been crushed, broken, and sent tumbling backward. Mormon’s long-planned bombardment had been carefully timed, precisely as the enemy’s front line had climbed three quarters of the distance. The carnage was maximized to its greatest effect. But it wasn’t enough.
Lamanite warriors were presently weaving around and climbing over every obstacle. Their momentum had been slowed but not thwarted. The corpses impeding the progress of soldiers were trampled or tossed aside. The angle of ascent was causing many to slip back one step for every two taken. Still, they kept coming. I bypassed numerous “traps” where boulders and flaming logs had been sent careening down the slope. These stations were unmanned. The two divisions appeared to have abandoned valuable posts. Soldiers were bunching together at various places along the ridge.
At the moment, the Nephite strategy was to launch a barrage of arrows and other ordnance high into the air to arch down onto the enemy. More and more Lamanites were recognizing that no missiles rained upon the part of the ridgeline where I was crossing. A distinctive “bulge” was forming immediately below this place. This bulge of men would reach the top before any others. My estimate was twenty minutes. Perhaps less. A lack of Nephite resistance would allow them to organize themselves and mount a devastating assault. They could attack in any direction of their choice. I shook my head at the tragedy unfolding. This divisional feud was petty. It could also lead to a massive Nephite defeat on this front.
Then I wondered, did it matter? Would an equal distribution of troops along the ridge have really made a difference? Again I studied the wave of men climbing toward me. The Lamanite chieftains and kings seemed unconcerned with casualties. The conclusion was foregone that the forces of Fireborn and Lamanai would receive a far higher casualty rate. The directive of Teotihuacán’s king was clear. Extermination. Genocide. To achieve that end, Spearthrower Owl would pay any price.
I continued along the ridgeline on a path that circumvented an outcropping of rocks and descended toward the heart of the Eagle Knights’ position. Archers were rotating in and out in three separate shifts. The barrage against the Lamanites was continuous. Subcommanders were urging some archers to extend the firing line southward, as I’d have directed, but few were heeding these commands. This was because the resupply posts for arrows was more centralized, the distance inconvenient, and the wealth of targets directly below them hardly lacking.
I noticed that not every booby trap of the Eagle Division had been sprung. The largest stockpile of boulders remained strapped in place, perhaps with the intent of demolishing Lamanite morale just minutes before the enemy achieved their objective. Even so, these mechanized avalanches ran only about fifty yards along the ridge. The human swath it would affect seemed woefully limited. One pyramid of timbers also remained. I could smell the acrid odor of the flammable substances it had been doused with. This bulwark was only half as wide as the boulders.
I suspected both traps were visible to the enemy. If not to those climbing, certainly to those at the base who’d launched companies of warriors up the slope. The density of men directly beneath these booby traps was conspicuously thin. For Jupiter’s sake, of course they knew about these traps! The slopes beneath them were virtually free of debris. Someone might have calculated that an unobstructed hillside would attract more climbers. This wasn’t the case. The Lamanites were surely aware that their leaders considered them expendable, but this didn’t make them eager to commit outright suicide. Instead, they traversed the obstacles left by other avalanches.
I saw that the Nephites still possessed one advantage. The timbers had been arranged so that the narrowest ends were set on the inside. This would cause them to roll outward at a widening angle all the way to the bottom. Clever. But how many men would really be stopped? It all seemed like a futile exercise.
Had Mormon underestimated his enemies? Had he not expected that every Lamanite tribe in the One World would march against Cumorah? Had it surprised him that Teotihuacán had joined in the slaughter? I doubted this. Little escaped the Prophet’s notice. The fact was he’d known the outcome of this day for years. His labors were an act of loyalty. Duty. Love. And an effort to buy time. So long as Mormon remained the Nephite commander—so long as they believed in him—there was still hope they might turn back to their God.
How many sermons had Mormon preached as men and women lugged boulders and timbers to this summit? How many times had he called them to repentance? I was surely aware of the general sentiments of the Nephites toward their commander. One hardly needed more than a few days to make that appraisal. Doting. Senile. Foolish. All the familiar adjectives.
Why in Jupiter had they reinstalled him as their commander? If they had it to do over, I sensed they would not. I felt I could taste some portion of Mormon’s pain. His sorrow. I wished I could feel his love. Maybe I did, a little, when it came to the welfare of his son.
I began to pass those archers who’d ventured farthest south. My sword was safely in its sheath. My open, empty hands hovered slightly out from my torso, demonstrating no aggressive intent, in case one of these men felt inclined to make me a target. Nothing about my personage resembled a Lamanite or Lightning Warrior, but at times like this a warrior’s instincts were often ruled by impetuosity. A coatimundi in the brush faced the same danger.
A few who saw me paused to glare. I waved cordially, after which they returned to the edge of the slope and fired more arrows.
Finally, one of them was bold enough to ask, “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Something about his tone revealed he’d recognized me as one of the “outsiders.”
“I’m here to fight,” I replied.
“Then, grab a bow and fight!”
He ignored me after that. The next several dozen men overheard and ignored me too. My first real challenge occurred as I passed a middle-aged Nephite officer. He’d been exhausting his energies, urging archers to march farther south before launching their missiles.
Before he could start interrogating me, I pointed southward and imbued my voice with authority: “The Lamanites will top that summit within minutes! Why isn’t that part of the ridge being defended?”
After that, he didn’t address me at all but hollered more emphatically at his men. “What have I been saying? Gemnor, Ontium! Gather your squads! Fill your quivers and fire down from that ridge! Every last man! Now!”
One man objected. “That’s Jaguar ground!”
“It’s about to be our hides!” the officer shouted in his face, spraying spittle, shoving him southward. These were not his actual words, but if I never inserted euphemisms, one might think a soldier never spoke at all.
If this officer ever turned back to look for me, I was already gone. I’d entered the thick of the division. Therefore, everyone assumed I belonged. No more interrogations. I identified the first warrior wearing emblems of notable rank and approached him. He was shouting at orderlies, demanding an assessment of the division’s remaining stockpile of munitions.
“Captain,” I interrupted. “I must speak with Commander Moroni.”
He gave me a once-over. “What fiend of the underworld are you?”
It was an expression, rather than an accusation, that I might have received from a devotee of Dootapoo. “I am Apollus,” I replied. “I have an urgent message for Moroni. Please direct me.”
“What’s the message?”
I spoke urgently. “I must deliver it directly to Moroni.”
“I’ll deliver it. Out with it!”
A lie entered my head. “It’s about his family. It’s for the Commander’s ears—for Moroni’s ears—only. Please, for mercy’s sake, direct me to him at once!”
The lie worked. Family matter—not gossip of strategic importance. My voice mingled the right balance of desperation and anguish, as if my news was . . . tragic, such as reporting the death of loved ones. He stiffened, wanting nothing to do with delivering a message like that.
“There. With his auxiliaries.” He pointed toward a cluster of soldiers at the far end of the last pyramid of logs, its restraining cords aching to be cut.
I aimed my steps toward my target. Like the Eagle officer, I was curious to hear what I would say to the division Commander. My goal was to find him. I’d gleaned no other objective from Rebecca, Meagan, or anyone else. What would be his response to my appearance? What would I say? That I was here to save his life? That would sound ridiculous. His bodyguards would deride me, possibly arrest me, insist that my motives were suspicious, even paradoxical—that I was actually here to bring him harm. I crossed the ground, dodging the soldiery—archers, sling-throwers, and dart-launchers—feeling increasingly unsettled, uncertain.
I tried to conjure a reasonable explanation for coming. I drew a breath to reassure myself. There was no reason for concern. I needed to trust the prophet’s son, who was, by all accounts, a prophet himself. Several bodyguards and orderlies spotted me first. Moroni was gazing down the slope, studying the encroaching enemy, speaking animatedly with two Knights whose job, I presumed, was to signal those who would sever cords to unloose the last two machinations, the boulders and the logs. Others stood by with torches to ignite the bitumen-soaked timber.
“Commander!” I called before his bodyguards could impede my path.
“Who are you?” and “How dare you!” were hurled at me, but Moroni had heard me.
He saw my face; his forehead scrunched in confusion.
An officer with a uniform of eagle claws and other emblems—Moroni’s Tribuni or Optio or however they designated a division’s second-in-command—spoke in earnest to two bodyguards. “Stop this man!”
“It’s all right.” Moroni stepped past his men. “Apollus,” he said quizzically. “Why are you here?”
If my mind had formulated an explanation, it now escaped me.
“Did you bring news?” the Commander persisted.
“Y-yes,” I stuttered.
They waited. He waited.
“The eastern and southern fortifications are overrun,” I said. “The Lamanites are inside Zenephi.”
Moroni and his men exchanged looks.
“Did you bring news I haven’t already heard?” asked Moroni. “This was relayed to me a half hour ago.”
I looked like an idiot. And felt like one.
By God’s grace—or reprieve—another officer shouted from the slope’s edge, “Commander, they’re surging north.”
We took three strides to the west to appraise the situation.
The officer continued. “In a moment, a large contingent will be positioned right below us. We may not get a better chance.” He referred to destructive capabilities of the boulders and logs.
Moroni sighed and shook his head. I saw what he saw: Lamanite officers with lashes were driving their men to “spread out” beneath the traps. The Knotties were provoking the Eagle Division to unleash these last two avalanches, just to see this particular stratagem brought to an end.
“There’re so many,” Moroni remarked. “It hardly matters.” The volume of his voice was low, addressing only himself.
The Tribune hadn’t heard—or he ignored—Moroni’s remark. “Commander, we must ignite the wood.”
Moroni looked at me, then back at his second-in-command. He merely nodded.
“Light the wood!” cried the Tribune to his torch bearers.
Fire was laid to the oil-drenched logs. The air, already stinking of bitumen, was further blackened as hungry flames crawled across the timber. The Eagle Knights exulted with anticipation.
Moroni leaned in close to my ear: “Was that really your only news?”
As the Prophet peered into my soul, it seemed pointless to invent another false rationale.
