Beyond the Fire Read online

  “Have I got you stumped?” Larry grinned.

  “Just about,” Bill admitted. “Larry, do you breathe air?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, if air is inside you, how can it be inside me too?”

  “Easy, there is enough for all of us.”

  “Exactly,” Bill exclaimed. “The Holy Spirit is like air. You can’t see it, but you can feel it moving in the world around you, and there is plenty of Jesus’s Spirit for everyone to be filled.”

  A trumpet sounded, and they were on the march again. They covered a great distance before darkness forced them to stop for the night. They would restock provisions at Shepherd in the morning and add a thousand men to their number. Green Meadow was only one hard day’s march away … and then what?

  Songs filled the camp that night, dispelling the tension everyone felt. Small wonder those who dwelt in this region lived in fear. A pall of dread clung to the land. Even so, when the trumpet sounded and silence filled the air, peace permeated the camp, and men slept soundly.

  They were on the march before sunrise and soon found Shepherd’s restock station and a thousand men to add to the muster. To everyone’s surprise and joy, five hundred men from Northglen arrived just before they set out again. Starting from a full day’s march behind, these men had caught up by marching double-time over countless miles.

  The next break was longer as officers repositioned troops, moving Bill’s unit forward, second to the front. Bob Walton’s unit was leading the way. At least there will be less dust this far forward, Bill thought to himself.

  Thus positioned, they marched out of Shepherd into a near vacuum of sound. There were no birds singing, and even the tramp of men’s feet on the earth seemed dull and distant. Scouts rode ahead to find some reason for the discomfort everyone was feeling.

  This was strange, new country for those who had spent their lives near the sea. Wide, rolling grasslands vanished as trees crept down steep mountain slopes. The Guardian Range disappeared behind towering trees, and the river now roared over its stony course below them. The path rose steeply west of Shepherd, and men felt quite isolated and alone, even though they marched in very close proximity.

  Shepherd was the western terminal for shipping on the Crescent River, and warehouses lined the river. Shipping companies such as Devia Freight stored goods and produce here to ship down the river as needed, or westward over land.

  A terrible friction had developed between Devia and Shepherd’s producers—so great, in fact, that several men had organized their own marketing group. However, their warehouse had been broken into and ransacked, and several men had been hurt. Many suspected Devia of hiring the vandals, but no one had any proof. The business had stayed open, but few traded there for fear of retaliation from Devia.

  Now Shepherd was deserted and silent except for those who remained to join Amity’s growing army. Most had fled to Zaraphath, seeking refuge among a greater company of people, leaving a stark reminder of fear and foreboding.

  The stop in Shepherd was brief, and its boarded windows and silent streets left a somber reminder of why they were here. Though the countryside was beautiful, with rugged hills climbing steeply from the cascading Crescent River and a narrow winding path that rose and fell among the trees, men began to wonder what peril might exist beyond the next turn.

  The march became a climb, and few spoke as the miles passed. Larry didn’t ask any questions, and Bill’s mind was miles away, thinking about Mary and wondering why he had ever chosen to leave her side. It was not the last time he would ask himself that question.

  The morning wore away, and the countryside moderated somewhat. The path was wider and the hills more gentle, but the trees were thicker. They stopped for a brief meal and then marched on in silence. Only the tramp of their feet and an occasional cough could be heard.

  They had marched only an hour or so since their break when the harsh bray of a trumpet brought excitement to their step and dread to their hearts. Around a bend in the trees, a lone scout raced into view, spurring his horse toward the men of Amity.

  Trumpets sounded along the entire column of men. Standing ten abreast, the men of Amity were trapped between the trees and the river. Commanders began shouting orders, and though there was little room for maneuverability, men hurried to their positions. Bob Walton’s company had led the march all day, so Bob and others among his company’s pikemen raced forward and planted the ends of their spear handles into the earth and held them at a forward angle. Then they crouched behind their shields, making a low wall, or parapet, lined with spears as the first line of defense.

  Others from Bob’s unit raced into the trees to find vantage points from which the archers could shoot. The swordsmen from Bill’s unit moved forward to form a second line behind the pikemen. Any who passed the spears would contend with the drawn blades of this second line of defense. The remainder of Bill’s unit raced into the noisy water of the Crescent River to block any enemy escape in that direction and to utilize their archery skills in the open terrain.

  The best archers in Amity were behind Bill, making the third line of defense, but problems were immediately obvious. Amity’s defense was miserably narrow, making it nearly impossible to move troops forward to replace fallen comrades. Too, Amity’s cavalry was stuck behind thousands of soldiers on the road leaving them unable to respond. Despite the problems, Amity’s training had been effective. It only took seconds for the men nearest the front to move into battle positions.

  Bill found himself directly behind Bob Walton, and though he had spent weeks training in this very position, his mind went blank as the crimson-clad riders of Endor came galloping into view.

  Bob glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw Bill standing upright, sword and shield drooping nearly to the ground. “Bill, get down!” he screamed.

  Above the clatter of horse’s hooves on the rocky soil, and amid shouts from men on both sides, Bill heard Bob’s warning and dropped to one knee just as the first volley of arrows hissed angrily past him from the archers behind.

  The dark horses of Endor were within twenty paces. Bill’s heart stood still. The world around him seemed unreal. This couldn’t be happening! Suddenly Bill was afraid. It was not a passive phobia but a maddening, mind-boggling fear. He desperately wanted to run away, but there was no escape.

  Several horses fell with the first volley fired from Amity’s archers, but Bill watched in horror as those behind plunged forward, coming directly at him. The angry blare of a nearby trumpet cleared his mind. The archers behind him lowered their bows, and Bill’s row came to its feet. The men behind Bill drew their swords and waited in silence.

  With a quick glance left and right, Bill saw the radiant, almost joyous face of Larry Chavez. This man who had grown up fighting was in his element, and this was his hour.

  Bill gulped and looked straight ahead. Several horsemen bore down upon the position he and Bob Walton shared. Though Bob’s spear never wavered, Bill shifted positions and tried to brace himself. Suddenly he heard a horse scream, and in the same instant he saw a dark shape hurtling through the air right at him. There was a terrible blow, and Bill’s world went dark.

  Far behind Bill, another battle was being fought. It did not involve enemy troops, and no officer could have guessed the impact that losing this battle would cause. A certain young man riding with the cavalry from Highland was losing his battle with fear.

  Archer Williams was large for his age and was good with a horse. He’d had no problem convincing Vanderwick to let him come on this mission. However, when the youngster heard horses scream somewhere ahead of him, he became frightened.

  With each sound of battle or scream of a horse, Williams cowered farther to the rear. He and his companions could not see anything but the backs of Amity’s infantry, for the winding road and dense forest blocked all view of the battle ahead, but the afternoon air was full
of the sounds of battle.

  “What do you suppose is happening?” one man near Williams asked.

  “I don’t know,” said another, “but I’d sure like a piece of the action.”

  Talk like that only served to frighten poor Williams even more. He wanted no part of anything that sounded so dreadful. While the others were pushing their way forward, Archer moved so slowly that before long he found himself at the very end of the line.

  When the shouts of battle had grown to a deafening roar, Archer Williams could take no more. The battle raged unseen within a quarter of a mile from where he sat, but he could not, would not, go any closer. Glancing back, Archer realized that if he slipped around the last bend in the road, the others could not see him. Surely they would never miss him. He had to try! Quietly Archer turned his horse around. With every eye looking forward to see how the battle fared, no one noticed.

  At first Williams barely moved, trying not to draw anyone’s attention, and though the day was cool, sweat trickled down his brow. Hardly daring to breathe, he reached the first bend with no shout of discovery. Williams looked back to discover that the men of Amity had disappeared behind the trees. Pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, he suddenly spurred his mount into a dead run. Archer Williams was going home.

  The miles flew beneath his steed, and by late afternoon he was nearing the city of Zaraphath. He barely noticed the sentry stationed on the outskirts of town.

  “Hey, kid!” a burly man shouted as he stepped into Williams’s path.

  Archer slowed his mount and came to a stop. It suddenly occurred to him how strange it would be to see one of Highland’s horsemen riding back alone late in the afternoon.

  “Yes, sir.” Archer tried to make his voice sound calm, but it squeaked instead.

  “Don’t get excited, young man,” the sentry said, grabbing the bridle of Williams’s heaving mount. “You’ve been running this horse long and hard this afternoon.”

  Archer couldn’t deny it, and he felt sorry for the chestnut gelding, but all he could say was, “Yes, sir!”

  “What’s your hurry, son?”

  What was Archer to say? Should he tell them he had deserted the cavalry of Highland at the first sounds of battle? Never! Quick as a wink, he made up a story: “I’m being sent with a message to Master Philip, sir!”

  “A likely lad and a likely task,” the sentry said, nodding. “But what do you know of the army? Is all well?”

  “I should say not!” Archer nearly shouted, letting down his guard after not being caught with his first lie.

  Several other men joined the sentry, and one of them asked excitedly, “Not well? What do you mean? Quickly, tell us what you know!”

  Realizing his folly, Archer grew more agitated. What should he say?

  “Come,” the sentry prodded. “If there is bad news, we’ll hear it eventually. Tell us what happened.”

  Archer broke. “It was awful,” he nearly bawled. “The battle was awful, with horses screaming and men dying.”

  “What happened?” the sentry demanded.

  “Amity was attacked, and the soldiers fled before the armies of Jabin. Thousands are slain!”

  The men questioning Archer grew pale. It was the sentry who recovered enough to ask, “What about Master Stafford, son? Is he all right?”

  “That is the message I carry to Master Philip,” Archer lied again. “John Stafford is dead!”

  “What?” one man cried. “John Stafford is dead?” He turned and ran into town, scooping dust from the path and flinging it into the air. “Stafford is dead!” he shouted to everyone in the streets. “John Stafford is dead!”

  Archer Williams was stunned by the man’s reaction. He’d had no idea his story would cause such a scene. One thing he was grateful for: the sentry no longer seemed interested in detaining him.

  “Sir,” Archer asked timidly, “may I proceed?”

  “Oh, certainly!” the big man said, releasing the horse and stepping from the path.

  Archer lost no time in getting out of Zaraphath. Later that night, he found a ford that crossed the Crescent River, and he disappeared into Highland, never knowing the effect his words would have on the course of events in Amity.

  Stars swam in a darkened sky, and somewhere bells were ringing. Bill couldn’t imagine where he was or how he’d gotten here, but slowly he opened his eyes. A horse reared, screams fill the air, and hooves pulverized the sod inches from his face.

  Frantically, Bill rolled away from the maddened charger. His sword was gone, and there was no time to look for it. At the back of his weapons belt was a sharp, two-edged hatchet. Instinctively his hand wrapped around its handle. It felt good in his hand. It was balanced, easy to swing, and razor sharp. Where a sword felt foreign in his hands, this hatchet reminded him of home and felling trees for his cabin.

  Struggling to one knee, Bill viewed the chaos all about him. Men surged back and forth; horses without riders milled about, trampling anything in their path; and screams filled the air. The clash of metal on metal added dread to the scene.

  To his left, Bill saw the black-and-gold standard of Amity. Clustered about it, a small band of men fought bravely. They were surrounded by the enemy on all sides. Bill turned that way. If die he must, that was where he would do it.

  From nowhere, a lance struck Bill’s shield and knocked him to the ground. Hooves churned about his head and body. Quickly he scrambled to his feet and raced for the standard of Amity. Swinging his weapon with great strokes, Bill cleared a path and found himself beside a gray-bearded man. Though the man appeared quite old, he fought tirelessly, and standing shoulder to shoulder, the two fought with the enemy, blow for blow.

  During a sudden lull in the fighting, Bill realized that Amity was not retreating. They were in fact advancing into the enemy lines. Arrows filled the sky as the marksmen of Amity found their targets. Bill was suddenly aware that he was now surrounded by men in black and gold. Bill felt a human press pushing him faster and faster toward the bend in the road.

  In sore distress, those opposing Amity suddenly broke ranks and fled. Bows sang and arrows hissed. The enemy fell. The attacked became the attackers. A great shout arose from the ranks of Amity.

  Bill was among the first to reach the bend in the road. He watched in disbelief as the enemy tossed burning torches into the standing fields of ripening grain. Multiple fires sprang to life and spread with incredible speed, hiding the headlong retreat of Jabin’s forces.

  Through the smoke of a thousand fires, the men of Amity gave chase. Pockets of resistance formed and fled as the vanguard of Amity poured into the valley. Bill gave chase to a group of Jabin’s men fleeing along the Crescent River. He sprinted on legs and feet that never seemed to tire. Whenever a man turned to fight, Bill cut him down until finally only one remained. Suddenly the man tripped and fell, and Bill was on him in an instant. When Bill rolled his enemy over, he was horrified to see that the “man” was no more than a boy and carried no weapon. “Oh, no!” Bill gasped. “What have I done?” Falling to his knees, Bill bowed his head in his hands and wept.

  Time passed, but Bill could not move. A twig snapped behind him, but he could not turn away from the youth he had slain.

  “Soldier!” The voice behind him was stern but gentle. Bill turned to see the gray-bearded man he’d fought beside on the road. It was John Stafford.

  “Come, soldier!”

  Bill remained on the ground. “I can go no farther!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I am undone,” Bill said quietly. “I murdered a lad who carried no weapon!”

  John studied the situation for a moment. The youth was clearly dressed in the garb of Jabin. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “There is nothing we can do for the lad now.”

  Bill grasped Stafford’s hand and rose to his feet. The two men stood for a
long moment and then turned away.

  The sun sank low in the western sky, and John was called away. Bill wandered slowly back to the site of the original attack. He struggled to catch his balance. What was that? A hat? No … a head! Blood made the road slick. He dropped to his knees and wretched.

  Bill wiped his mouth and sat with his head in his hands. Suddenly he froze. He thought he’d heard someone call for help. Slowly he pushed himself to his knees and then to his feet. He began to search the bodies closest to him. Rolling a dark-haired man over, he heard a faint voice whisper, “Help me. My arm …”

  Bill gasped. It was Larry Chavez. His eyes were glazed, and his face was pale. Bill could see that Larry’s arm was badly broken, but that shouldn’t have been the cause of his paleness. Glancing over Larry’s body, Bill’s heart nearly stopped beating. Where there should have been two legs, there was only one. Bill turned and gagged again.

  “Help me,” Larry whimpered.

  Getting a grip on himself, Bill began to look for something to wrap Larry’s stump. Having lost his own backpack, he spied another nearby. In the bottom of the pack was a large roll of cloth.

  “Thanks,” Bill said to the body lying under the pack. Suddenly he stopped and rolled the body over—and gasped again. It was Darren Ogilbe! The tall youth would never return to help his family pick fruit from the orchards north of Capri.

  Returning to Chavez, Bill wrapped the bandage tightly around his stump. After some moments, he paused to examine his work. Larry’s leg had finally stopped bleeding.

  “My arm,” Larry whispered.

  Bill examined Larry’s arm. It was broken above the elbow. Clipping the straps that held Larry’s shield to his arm, Bill hacked a spear beam into shorter rods. Pulling Larry’s arm straight, Bill laid the strips of wood around the break and bound the arm tightly. “That ought to do it,” he said, satisfied after examining his labor.