The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2) Read online

  Chapter 2

  †

  Devastation

  The LORD is near the brokenhearted; He saves those crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18 HCSB

  The attack on Ariel and Bethuel, to say nothing of the atrocities in Glenwood, had nearly destroyed the surrounding rural areas. The False Prophet’s army and the mounted mercenary Raiders had fought a bitter battle here, only to arrive at a stalemate. The invaders had trampled through the nearby farms, stealing fruits and vegetables. Then, weeks ago, the main army departed to the East. But many Raiders and one thousand dismounted soldiers still remained. They set up guard posts along the supply route up and down the river, making it difficult for city folk to salvage anything worthwhile from the countryside. The time was dark, and food was scarce.

  Fortunately, flocks of sheep and cattle had been saved by farmers who drove them south into a distant valley where there was fresh grass, unlike the hay fields that had been trampled by the invading army. The Prophet’s remaining forces forced the towns to remain ready for war. They were not in a strong enough position to drive them away, but they could easily defend their walls and the areas nearby. They were able to harass the enemy supply lines with their horse troops and with the help of Diné warriors from the lands to the south.

  As local people saw the destruction caused by his minions, they shared a hatred of the False Prophet. They cursed him as they buried their dead. His main army had departed, true enough, but another could arrive. They all knew he still posed a real and evil threat and fear remained their constant companion.

  Spring in the Haven valley came late, but soon the trees were no longer bare, naked in the chilly winds. The Kolaroo River had shed its ice. Pale-green buds sprouted. As the temperatures increased, so did the anxiety of men. Rumors abounded that the False Prophet intended to forge a new Empire. Stories were whispered about his hatred of Christians and a decree that would soon be issued to persecute those who openly expressed their faith. Where once a glimpse of hope had been hovering, now, men’s tongues were quiet, and mistrust filled the air. The faint promise of peace seemed even fainter.

  Night fell rapidly as the last golden glows of sunlight had disappeared below the horizon. Two days’ ride out of Glenwood, three men huddled around a campfire, warming their hands around thick metal cups of coffee. A few recently caught rabbits lay roasting on sticks above the flames, as the moon edged out from behind the dark night clouds. Their main force was encamped a few miles away. Samuel, the leader of the expedition, had suggested that they accompany a patrol scouting the route ahead.

  Donald of Fisher, Samuel of Gibeah, and young Philip, Donald’s aide, spoke in low voices, grateful for the two-week reprieve since the last clash. The horses were tethered nearby, but no one was expecting any action tonight.

  Don turned the rabbits, willing them to cook faster as the tantalizing smell of freshly cooked meat filled his nostrils. Philip was quiet, always willing to let the older men lead in conversation. Samuel leaned against a gnarled oak that still bore the caps of last fall’s acorns. He was wrapped in a warm, brown leather jacket. As the fire crackled and hissed in front of them, everyone’s thoughts were on fresh food. Samuel added some salt from a small pouch he carried in his saddlebags.

  “So,” began Samuel, “we need to make some plans. We need to convince the town-folk in the East that the fight must go on. Now it is Stonegate’s destiny to lead the fight. But to do so, they need more men. The Prophet’s army may have moved on from here, but they will return to smash the walls and take control—unless the Eastern cities can defeat him.”

  Samuel was the senior leader for good reason. He was a skilled scout and a brilliant tactician. His battle scars gave mute proof that he was a veteran of many campaigns. His left arm had been cut off at the elbow in a previous war. Respect was something Samuel commanded, simply by the sound of his deep, bass voice and his hard-earned wisdom. His mere presence was powerful, due to his strong, masculine appearance and air of confidence. For all that, he was surprisingly gentle.

  Although Samuel was in his late fifties, he had the body of a young man—a broad chest and a strong, stocky body. Though shorter than average, he compensated by his muscular frame, incredible strength, and deftness in action on the battlefield. In his younger days he’d been quite handsome, with ice-blue eyes and deep-brown hair, and even now he looked refined and dignified. His helm had a broad gold band around the circumference indicating a senior commander. He had the right to wear the golden marshall’s helm, but he felt it was too ornate for the field. It was no secret that Samuel was a Christian who would never deny his faith.

  “I’m starting to see why you wanted Deborah to come along,” said Don, turning the now cooked rabbits over and onto a bed of clean leaves. “Let’s eat,” he motioned for Philip to come. “Her eyewitness testimony should help remove all doubt of the seriousness of the threat.”

  Deborah had stayed with the main party, since she was tired and needed rest. Don and Samuel planned to rejoin them in the morning. They planned to travel eastward over the mountains to the city of Hightower to warn the people of the East of the threat of invasion.

  Don finished his last piece of meat with a gulp of coffee, glad for the warmth spreading through his previously empty belly.

  “And do you think your assistants will be able to help in recruiting?” he asked Samuel. “Somehow, we have to reach every village and hamlet to raise as big a force as possible.”

  “I have great faith in the ability of Eric. After all, not only is he my assistant but also my bodyguard. I have known him for a few years now, and he has proved himself to be loyal and smart. Bobby has not been with me as long.”

  Samuel turned to Philip. “You have heard me mention Owl Hollow, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” the lad answered. “But I had the idea it was a secret.”

  “That it is. We have weapons stored there that could be vital. I have half a mind to send you there and have them moved to the East for their safekeeping.”

  “That might be a good idea,” contributed Don, stirring the remains of the fire. “But it is not easy to find. Perhaps Eric would be a better choice as a messenger.”

  “You are right, of course. But I really can’t spare Eric right now. Still, it is not hard to find the general area, and a sketch map would be enough to find the exact spot where the trail enters the logjam.”

  He turned to Philip. “I can tell you that the trail to this place passes through a spruce-fir forest that is a tangle of fallen trees. Only one way in or out.”

  “It does not sound easy to locate,” said Philip, after a hesitation. “But if you wish, I can try to find the place and carry a message.”

  “Hmm. The easiest way to find it from here is to go up the Kolaroo River from Glenwood. Do you remember where the Great Highway left the Kolaroo and continued up the Eagle River?”

  Philip nodded, and Samuel continued. “About two miles up-river from where the Great Highway takes its leave, Deep Creek drains down from the northwest. That’s the key landmark.”

  “Yes!” said Philip. His eyes flashed it the firelight, and his tone was eager. “Someone pointed it out to me yesterday when I accompanied a patrol that way. We were making sure there was no enemy on our flank. Deep Creek is where we turned back.”

  “Yes, I see. So if you follow a well-marked trail to the northwest from there, staying to the south of Deep Creek, you will come to Heart Lake. You will go for a day’s ride, thirty miles or so. It’s difficult to miss—it is actually shaped like a heart. At that point, you will be near to Owl Canyon.”

  Samuel then described the narrow trails that led the rest of the way. Don had been there before, though he had come a different way, but finally even Philip had a good understanding of where the retreat was located.

  “This must be kept secret from anyone else, Philip,” said Sam
uel. “But I felt it wise to let you know, just in case we need to send you there.”

  Philip nodded. Samuel stretched and said, “What say we retire for the night here in our campsite, under the stars and the moon and God’s protection from evil?”

  Both Philip and Don needed no further encouragement to bed down by the campfire. Although it was a cool night, they had saddle blankets, ample clothing, and the heat of the embers to keep them warm. As midnight approached, Don was still listening to the deep snoring of his two comrades, sleep somehow evading him. Thoughts of Rachel kept coming through his mind, haunting him with past memories and future possibilities. Rachel of Westerly was the one woman he would never forget. Had she forgotten him?

  The first day he met her, a day when her mother Rachel and her mother Wilma had been attending to his wounded arm, he was immediately struck by Rachel’s natural beauty. Long, straight hair, the color of oat straw, framed her oval face featuring big blue eyes, a cute nose, and full pinkish lips. Just thinking about her made his heart beat faster.

  She wore a full-length muslin dress, cream colored with a caramel-brown V neckline highlighting the fullness of her bodice. The dress tapered down to a tiny waist. On her hips was a fashionable brown belt with a blue gemstone in the buckle. The full pleats in her dress swung gently as she walked toward him, smiling.

  The vision of her coming remained with him always.

  The time he spent at Westerly-stead recuperating was the happiest time of his life. Getting to know Rachel and spending some private moments with her was something he’d never known before. Although he was nearly thirty, he never had a close friendship with a woman. He was shy, and he’d never met one who impressed him as much as Rachel.

  Then how suddenly things had changed.

  Balek Brown sent two hundred men to decoy Don’s patrol. The Raiders killed Rachel’s parents and took Rachel captive. Tears rolled down his face, tasting of salt. How could I have been so naïve and stupid? He had been tricked by the enemy, and now a day never went by that he didn’t think about the tragic consequences. The deaths were his fault.

  The next time he saw Rachel was the day he rescued her. Don took her along with five other girls to a hospital for treatment and then to Samuel’s Owl Hollow. While he was away on a mission, Rachel had decided to return to Stonegate. Don had not seen her since.

  Sighing with sadness and regret, Don closed his eyes, willing sleep to come and chase away his demons. The last thing he remembered before finally giving in to his weariness, in mind and spirit, was Rachel’s face, smiling at him.

  Chapter 3

  †

  First Pass

  And he said, Let us take our journey, and let us go, and I will go before thee. Genesis 33:12 KJV

  The ride might have been pleasant, had the need for haste not prodded them like a man goading an ox. Spring comes late to the mountains, but even so, the day was warm enough to seem like summer. The orange-red of Indian paint brushes were already visible, and the aspens displayed young olive-green leaves. Donald of Fisher rode with the main body of the delegation, heading east toward Hightower. As the route wound up First Pass, he would sometimes turn in the saddle and look back to take in the view of the surrounding mountain ranges. A deep part of his mind responded to the majestic view, but it was not enough to brighten his mood.

  The mountains were covered with dark pines; a series of sharp ridges reached like dark fingers as high as timberline. Stretching north and south, a line of peaks soared higher still, bluish gray with shining streaks of white. The sky was mostly dark blue, but coils of fluffy clouds hung about the highest peaks like downy feathers.

  Don was wearing mail armor over a padded linen tunic, as was prudent in the field. But his breastplate with the gold eagle inlay on the chest and matching back-plate were packed with the baggage that Red, his packhorse carried. His helm also had the broad golden band of a senior commander, identical to the one Samuel wore, and he carried a gold-inlaid war-horn on a baldric slung from his shoulder. The horn and plate armor had been captured in the field from an enemy commander who had fallen in battle. Don was still somewhat uncomfortable keeping and wearing such valuable things, but his men had insisted that he deserved the honor. One of his most prized possessions, other than the plain Stonegate sword he always wore, was the binoculars he carried in a padded case on the pommel of his saddle. These beautiful optics were antiques dating from the elder days. The secret of making them had been lost, and if they were damaged they could not be replaced.

  The Great Highway was an easy route to travel, even though in poor repair. Once paved with a tar-like coating, the surface was now worn rubble. Weeds and bushes grew between the ruts, and stumps, two hand’s breadth in diameter, showed that even trees had once grown there. Still, the draft horses pulled the wagons and gun carriages with little difficulty, and the horsemen found interlaced paths worn deep by hooves.

  Their only troop of cavalry, the Blades, led the main party, fifty horsemen strong. Like all horse troops, the unit was divided into five teams called mounts, each with its mount leader. The troop commander, Slim, was a quiet and competent man. Don was glad he was with them. He had forged a bond with him that only battle companions can know. He realized that he would miss the many others that he was leaving behind, those that he had trained, fought beside, and bled with.

  Their mounted missile troopers, armed with crossbows and grenades, came behind as the rear guard. The three brass cannon, their field artillery, were midway in the column. Though the guns only weighed about four hundred pounds apiece, the draft horses were slower and set the pace of movement. The ten scouts were all well out in front, alert for signs of trouble. Don rode alone, behind Deborah and Colin McCoy. Philip, his young assistant, came behind, leading Red, his packhorse. Red frisked along, carrying all Don’s and Philip’s gear, as if wanting to set a faster pace. Still farther back were Samuel and his two bodyguards, Bobby and Eric. Rob, the armorer, rode with the guns.

  The sun had climbed to its apex, and the temperature was becoming warm. The scent of wildflowers mingled with the musky sweat of their mounts. Don was not in the mood for conversation. But he half-heard Colin’s jokes, bantering with the solitary woman in the company. Samuel had offered to bring a female companion to be her escort, but she had calmly refused, saying that a troop of cavalry was escort enough. Colin had been the troop leader of the Javelins, but he had volunteered to be Don’s bodyguard. Despite that, Don had ordered him to watch over Deborah as his first priority.

  Don reflected on her decision. Conventional propriety urged that she not travel unescorted. But Deborah was not conventional. She had a quick mind and was not afraid to show it. Though young, she was a natural leader and had saved his life the last time they had travelled together. A sword cut on his arm had become infected, and he would have probably died if she had not the presence of mind to get him to the surgeons at the House of Healing. His action in delivering Deborah from enslavement by Lilith, mistress of Falcon Hall, had been rash. But it had turned out for the best. Deborah had found the information he needed to locate and rescue Rachel.

  While Don had been recovering, Deborah had used some well-spent coin to find out where captured women might be held and who might be willing to risk a desperate rescue. In all the events that had swirled around Don in the past few months, Deborah was always at the center. She was a planner and organizer, true enough, but she always seemed to be the catalyst that made things happen. He could not help admiring her, but she also confused him. Who is she, really?

  It was Deborah who had caused Rachel to return to Stonegate without him. He had not heard the conversation, but Rachel had left believing Don had been unfaithful to her. Don had not found the opportunity to confess that his poor judgment was responsible for her parents’ death, but Deborah had revealed that, too. Don’s ears burned with shame as he thought about it. Did Debora
h do it out of jealousy? Had she deliberately torn Rachel and him apart? He knew Deborah also cared for him, unless his earlier rejection had turned her tender regard into something else, something bitter.

  He knew only that his feelings for Rachel were stronger than ever, if that were possible. He treasured the brief note he had received a few days ago; Rachel wanted to see him again. He would like nothing better than to leave the long column and strike off on his own. He only wanted to ride at full speed toward Stonegate with no objective in mind but to take her in his arms again. The pace of their march frustrated him, and the need for immediate action burned like acid in his throat. Philip spurred up to ride at his side and gave him a quick grin.

  Snap, his warhorse, easily kept pace with the others. Don had not at first appreciated what a princely treasure he was. Fearless in battle and trained from a foal in the bitter art of armed combat, there was not a horse outside Stonegate that was his equal. His old commander, Gray John, must have ensured that Don left well-mounted and allowed Snap to be sold at a bargain, even though the two men had parted in apparent hostility. It was strange that Don was famous as the Lore-man on the Red Horse. He had ridden Red, the muscular pack horse, into a crucial battle. Red had done well, even though untrained. His big, brave heart had been enough to carry Don victoriously on the field that day, and now people were singing songs about it. Today the famous red horse was carrying a humble pack, and the real warhorse was a dark chestnut color. Strange.

  His thoughts were broken by a sweet melody. Who is singing? He realized the song was coming from ahead. Colin, Don’s bodyguard, was singing an ancient ballad in a clear tenor, and Deborah’s contralto was blending perfectly with his voice. He was struck by the last stanza, “Should you softly tell me that you love me, I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.”