With the moon set, only the slow rotation of the stars marked the progress of the night. The Bear began the night high in the sky, but was almost at the horizon when Uriel rasped for the second time, “Get down.” This time, I could barely hear the horse, and it never came close enough to see. Lying on the ground, I wondered what we would do once the sun rose. At least Uriel seemed to have a destination—but would we arrive in time?
We pushed forward, rushing toward the new day, which already made it easier to see pitfalls on the path. Now it was a race. When I saw a faint glow in the darkness ahead, brighter than the dawn quickly emerging behind us, I knew that we’d won. The glow of a welcoming fire grew ever closer. Uriel picked up his pace and we matched him easily, drawn on by the promise of safety. Yet, as we drew nearer to the warm light, it became clear that this blaze would offer us no protection at all.
Had we walked up the trail two days earlier, we would have crossed a clearing to a large house, at least three times the size of Uncle Menachem’s. Now, with the roof gone, it seemed even larger. The walls still stood, their stones black with ash. A red glow radiated from burnt remains still smoldering from their destruction.
Uriel staggered forward with a low moan, no longer restraining his voice. He dropped to his knees at the side of a dark figure on the ground, and I flinched as a high-pitched cry broke from my master’s lips. The firelight reflected off the silver beard of the corpse, which Uriel stroked lovingly as he wailed. I stepped closer, recognizing familiar wrinkles around the mouth that sang so beautifully it never required words. Tzadok. Other shadows dotted the clearing around the ruin. We’d arrived at the scene of a massacre.
A ram’s horn blast split the dawn: a soldier with dark, hawk-eyes had reached the edge of the clearing.
The eerie silence following the blast was marked only by a last mournful wail from Uriel. I expected the soldier to kick his horse into a charge, but he just sat, watching us from a distance.
Uriel rose from Tzadok’s side, his eyes now dry, radiating calm and power. “You two run. It’s my blood they want. They’ll take yours as well, but if you get far enough away, they won’t bother giving chase.”
Yonaton trembled, but his eyes were resolute. He straightened his shoulders and met my gaze with a short nod. We wouldn’t leave the prophet alone to die. “There are three of us,” I said. “We’ll fight.”
Uriel gripped his staff in one hand, the other flexing rhythmically, his muscles growing tense as he eyed his enemy. “If he were going to attack on his own, he would have done so already. He’s just watching us until the others arrive. Then it will be one old man and two unarmed boys against four soldiers with swords and horses.” He spun us away from the soldier and gave us each a hard push in the back. “Go!”
Uriel barked the command with so much force that my legs reacted before I even considered disobeying. We darted across the clearing, past the destroyed house, and into the cover of thick pine trees on the far side. Our dark shelter gave me a renewed sense of safety, and I stopped for a last glimpse of my master.
Uriel rose to his full, imposing height; he twirled his staff above his head as the soldier circled, well out of striking range. A second rider charged up the trail. Would they wait for all four, or would the two attack? I staggered back toward Uriel, but Yonaton grabbed my arm. “He told us to get out of here!”
I bit my lip and tasted blood between my teeth. Yonaton was right, there was nothing more we could do for the navi. We dodged between the trees, crashed through branches, and stumbled on the uneven ground, no longer caring about keeping quiet, or even where we were going. When the ground dipped onto a trail, we sprinted in earnest, knowing that our lives depended on putting distance between ourselves and Uriel. There was no way he could hope to defeat four armed soldiers with just his staff, yet when I glimpsed back before disappearing into the trees, he was still swinging that staff over his head, keeping the soldiers at bay. I realized that this meager defense, which couldn’t preserve his life for more than a few extra moments, wasn’t for him at all—it bought the two of us time to escape the certain death he faced.
A boulder blocked the trail ahead, and we swung around it at full speed. Our haste made us careless: We almost ran straight into the third soldier riding hard up the trail. He reined in his horse, and a wide grin split his sharp cheekbones, his eyes falling upon Yonaton. “Thought you’d have a little fun with us chasing shadows down to Jericho, didya? Knew you were lying. Knew you’d bring us right to him. Ought to thank you, I should. But the Queen says no survivors—no prophets, no disciples. Anyone who’d run to warn a prophet sounds like a disciple to me.” He kicked the horse’s belly and charged.
We dove to opposite sides of the trail, and the soldier pursued Yonaton. “Run!” Yonaton screamed as the soldier raised his sword.
I took one step down the trail, then froze. I may have left my master to face four soldiers, but I wouldn’t leave my friend to fight one alone. I snatched a sharp stone from the edge of the path and flung it with all my might at the rider’s back. The rock missed its target but came close enough to the soldier’s ear to make him flinch. That was enough—Yonaton rolled back onto the trail as the sword plunged into the vacated ground.
The soldier reared his mount and turned, now facing me. I threw a second rock. He ducked it, then raised his sword for the strike. My legs were rooted to the spot. Even if I’d run for the trees, I wouldn’t have reached them in time. But the thrust never came—he lurched forward on the horse, hands clutching for balance as bright blood stained his tunic below the shoulder.
A man jumped out of the trees.
My mouth dropped. It was Shimon, his face livid, with dried blood obscuring his scars.
“Give me the other one!” he screamed at me.
I stared, uncomprehending. Shimon ran toward me with hand outstretched, reached into my belt, and pulled out the dagger that he’d given me months before.
The soldier was wounded, but not badly enough. He recovered his balance and kicked his horse forward. Shimon threw the dagger, but the soldier ducked low over his knees to avoid it.
The horse thundered toward us. The rider raised his sword, then screamed out in pain as Yonaton’s rock struck his injured shoulder. He checked his mount and swiveled his pale face back and forth between us. He was still better armed, but now it was three against one, and none of us was his intended victim. Pulling up his horse, he turned and thundered back up the trail.
Shimon reached out a quivering hand. “Give it to me.”
This time I knew exactly what he meant, as if expecting the request all along. I pulled my father’s knife from under my tunic and handed it to the man who told me never to use it.
Shimon gaped at the knife in his hand. He closed his eyes and pressed the flat of the stone blade to his forehead. Tears squeezed out from under his eyelids. When he opened them, his face was transformed. The burning anger was gone, replaced by peaceful clarity. Without a word, he bolted up the hill after his injured enemy. The look in Shimon’s eye pushed all thoughts of flight from my mind. I took off after him, waving for Yonaton to follow.
All four soldiers now circled Uriel like wild dogs, jabbing at him with their swords, hemming him in. He swung his staff in broad sweeps, and they cantered just out of reach. He couldn’t keep up his defense for long. They would wait for the easy kill.
Shimon bounded from the trees, unnoticed, and leapt onto the closest horse. It reared and kicked as his weight crashed down behind its rider. Shimon threw a powerful arm around the neck and wrenched his enemy into a chokehold. With an upward thrust of his other hand, Shimon drove the knife through the soldier’s back. A choking scream escaped the rider’s throat as the tip of the blade broke through his chest above his heart. Shimon yanked the knife out and shoved the soldier’s limp body off the horse.
The other three turned at their comrade’s cry—a mistake. Uriel stepped forward and brought his staff down with a sickening crunch on the knee of a stocky soldier. The rider let out a howl and turned to fight the prophet, while his companions closed in on Shimon.
Two soldiers charged from either side, swords flashing. Shimon turned the first strike aside with the flat of the knife and threw himself backward to dodge the second. He dug his ankles into the horse’s belly, and it leapt forward. He rode in a broad circle around the clearing, two riders giving chase while Uriel dueled the stocky one in the middle.
Yonaton and I waited in the shelter of the trees, gripping rocks. As Shimon raced past, we threw. I missed the hawk-eyed soldier’s head by a hairsbreadth, but Yonaton’s fist-sized chunk of stone hit his companion just above his left eye.
The rider buckled on his horse, lost his balance, and lurched to the side. He struggled to regain control of his mount, and we saw a blood stain below his shoulder—the same soldier we’d faced earlier. He recovered his balance and took off after us, blood streaming into his eye.
Again, he pursued Yonaton, who eluded him by ducking in and out of the trees ringing the clearing. I chased after them throwing rocks, aiming high to avoid hitting Yonaton. I missed twice, but my third throw connected with the back of his skull with a resounding thud.
The soldier screamed out and spun his horse around to face me. Yonaton seized his chance. Jumping out, he grabbed the horse’s tail with both hands and pulled down with all his weight. The horse reared its front legs high in the air as its neigh echoed through the trees.
The soldier fell backward, and his sword tumbled from his hand. The combined force of Yonaton’s weight and the soldier’s desperate attempt to grip its mane caused his steed to lose its balance, and it too fell back on its haunches. The rider hit the ground first. The horse followed, landing on its rider and Yonaton.
The animal kicked its legs and rolled to regain its footing. Yonaton struggled up as well, having absorbed merely the weight of the horse’s hind legs in the fall. The soldier took the hardest blow, falling from a height and crushed by the full weight of the horse’s heavy body. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he scrambled for his fallen sword.
I dove past Yonaton, arms outstretched, reaching the sword before the soldier could grab hold of it.
I stood over my unarmed enemy, the hilt warm in my hand. The wounded soldier pushed himself upright and let out a raspy cough, his face twisting in pain. I stared down at him, feeling the weight of the iron. My hands trembled.
Yonaton laid a hand on my shoulder. No longer attempting to fight, the soldier opened his mouth to speak, and blood gushed out. I expected him to beg for his life, but the only words that escaped were a whispered plea. “Make it fast.”
I pressed the point of the sword to the soldier’s chest and squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to watch. I always turned away when my uncle slaughtered the sheep. I drew the weapon back to gather more power, but my arms froze there.
“Do it!” the soldier cried, the effort forcing out a bloody cough. His chest gurgled—the soldier was dying. The most merciful thing would be to end it quickly. But I couldn’t bring myself to deliver the final blow.
