Thorns of Glory Read online

  “Stay with me!” I cried at Meagan.

  She was reeling from the pain of having her scalp nearly torn from her skull, but we crawled toward a cleft at the edge of the precipice. The crevice was shallow—a few yards deep. We pressed inside as the beast again passed overhead. I felt a nip at the back of my head as it flicked my hair. Blood might have been drawn, but I did not reach up to verify it. The creature would not fly over us a third time. It would light on the rocks and methodically pluck us out of the crevice as a bird might draw a pair of worms from a hole. I felt flustered, devoid of new ideas to save our lives.

  It was Meagan who rasped, “Keep crawling!”

  The notion was irrational. Our protection was little more than a shaft in the rock, cut by wind and rain. Crawling forward meant crawling downward and inevitably plunging over the edge. Yet I’d learned that with Meagan, no notion was irrational. To ignore her “second sight” in these circumstances would be at my own peril, so I led the way forward into the steep crevice. As expected, the little canyon dropped into nothing. I heard the surf crashing below. But unexpectedly, a narrow pathway appeared. This ledge descended toward an ingress just below the lip of the cliff. A genuine place of refuge! Buffeted by wind, we shimmied down the perilous incline on our bellies. If we failed to pull ourselves into the hole with precise timing, we’d plummet over the ledge.

  The return of our adversary gave us plenty of incentive to drag ourselves the last few feet. The wind became our ally; it made the predator’s massive wings inept. Instead, it perched upon the ledge above.

  “Move!” shouted Meagan, as if I wasn’t already squirming expeditiously.

  She practically crawled over the top of me, causing my feet to kick her perpetually in the chest and chin. Despite the clumsiness, we slipped together into the cavity. Dust and pebbles sprayed our backs as the dragon’s talons clutched at the ledge, flapping furiously to seek an ideal foothold that would allow it to finish us.

  Somehow, Meagan, eyes bandaged, flopped ahead of me. She seized my collar and yanked me deeper into the opening. Like crabs, we scrabbled on our backs toward the rear of the cave. Should I have called it a cave? It more resembled an overhang where an osprey might stitch a nest. I couldn’t turn my body or crane my neck to apprehend how deep we were or how safe from the dragon’s serrated teeth. Meagan also tried to turn and look, though I could not fathom what she thought she was seeing. Habit, I decided. Her eyes—or ears—were naturally inclined toward danger.

  She insisted I validate her actions. “Are we safe? Is it a suitable sanctuary?”

  The dragon was again airborne, wings flapping madly, bobbing and hovering just beyond the cavity, outside the entryway, quashing any inclination we might have had to flee.

  I vacillated before answering her, awed by her supernatural gifts. How had she known such a cavern, however shallow, awaited us here? She’d saved my Roman hide from those snapping jaws in the nick of time. Sightless though she was, she’d saved my life. I felt I was the handicapped one, not Meagan.

  I surveyed the cavity, fore and aft, still contemplating how I might answer her question.

  Again she pressed, “It’s a cave! Am I right? Have I found a route of escape?”

  The dragon commenced tearing relentlessly at loose shale and gravel around the opening, determined to work its head far enough inside to bite an idly placed hand or snag a fold of clothing. Anything to drag us out. Each scratch of its talons permitted its pick-shaped head to thrust inside a few inches farther. The cavity filled with dust as well as swirling orange, emerald, and vermilion feathers. I sniffed a particle into one nostril, sneezing tenaciously to dislodge it as I replied to Meagan.

  “I [sneeze] don’t see [sneeze] a way [sneeze] out [double sneeze]!” My chin snapped forward as the fleck was expelled.

  She rejected this conclusion. “Look again! Look harder!”

  The shale was fragile. Debris flew around us like shrapnel from an onager. The bird’s beak was like an iron bludgeon, gnashing and smashing the outer edges, ever widening the gap. Fishy breath stank up the cavity. Was food so scarce that it felt it must masochistically batter its head for a paltry meal? Or did another force compel it? Was it vexed by a Gadianton spell? A third reptilian bird arose behind the first to drive off its competitor and claim the meal. The first dragon, superior in size, fiercely defended its turf, driving away the newcomer with slashing talons, attempting to gouge out the third dragon’s eyes.

  During the distraction, I scooted deeper into the niche, searching with my feet for an unseen corridor. Meagan seemed certain it existed; it must have been true. She tried a similar maneuver, crawling backward and kicking at the stones, confident a hidden tunnel would magically appear. We squeezed in another yard or two, but no escape materialized.

  “I don’t understand!” she wailed, as if offended by her own spiritual premonition. “It should be here! It must be here!”

  Her confidence was mesmerizing. I rolled onto my back and scraped at loose shale, expecting a dark ingress to a wider channel to suddenly open. Despite Meagan’s intransigence, the cave was a dead-end. There was no hidden escape route. Its avian jaws penetrated deeper and deeper, tenaciousness escalating.

  Humbly, I said, “There’s no tunnel, my love. We’re trapped. Unless—until—the beast departs.”

  “It won’t depart,” she insisted. “Don’t you understand? They control it, Apollus! It will dig and dig! They sent us here to die, wherever ‘here’ is.”

  I spoke curtly. “You said yourself they are not infallible. Not all-powerful! You declared it to their faces, and I felt them shudder. There is a way to escape!”

  She snapped at me bitterly, “Then, you tell me!”

  It wasn’t personal. She was frustrated. I knew she was right, but by all the gods, I could not deduce a solution.

  The creature had managed to insert the front and rear prong of its head into the gap, scraping and hammering like the horns of an aurochs, further widening the gap. It pulled back as if to assess its progress, appraising us for an instant with those sapphire eyes. Its jaws gaped wide, and it roared its dragon roar. Was it challenging us or laughing at our predicament? At their widest expanse, I could have leaped into those jaws, bypassing the teeth, right into its throat, letting it swallow me whole.

  Meagan could not see any of this, yet her fingernails pierced tightly into my bicep. “That’s it.” Her voice was a whisper, then it amplified. “That’s it!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you see? The rift! It’s right there! Right in front of us!”

  “Rift?” I was perplexed.

  She pointed into the dragon’s jaws. “There. I should have realized. It’s a matter of faith. Don’t you see? Safety is in the jaws of the ‘Great Maw.’ Our obvious escape is in the direction of obvious death.”

  I gaped at her, blinking repeatedly, praying I’d misunderstood. “What are you—? Do you mean we—?”

  “We charge it. Run straight at the pterodactyl. Or whatever it is. If it moves, so be it. We leap into open space, out and away from the cliff.”

  I continued to gape, thunderstruck. She was serious. The creature thrust in and snapped several more times to see if it had widened the gap enough to find purchase. I yanked down Meagan’s wrist, denying the dragon a target. Its seemingly steel-plated head kept smashing shale. Comparatively puny appendages, like the claws of a bat, scraped out loose stones. This wasn’t the first time it had nabbed prey by this method. It was confident of inevitable success.

  “Meagan”—I tried to muster every ounce of reason—“how do you know there is a rift?” I was almost ashamed to ask, like a skeptical disciple questioning a seasoned master.

  “Because I see it!” she insisted. “I mean, I see . . .” She huffed in aggravation. “It’s there, Apollus!”

  “Even if there is a rift, those teeth could clamp down, spill our entrails before we can pass through. We’ll reach our destination as chunks of gristle.”

  She gripped my shoulders in the whirl of dust and feathers. “And there’s the faith.”

  She spoke the word as if neither of us fully understood it or had never truly exercised it.

  I swallowed and requested final clarification. “You’re suggesting we lunge forward into the dragon’s gullet, and . . . this will allow us to pass through the rift?”

  Her face flashed doubt. It faded instantly, replaced by a nod of vigor and enthusiasm. “Yes, Apollus!” She practically screamed, though her voice was barely audible over the monster’s latest ear-rending shriek. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting!”

  Chapter 2

  Marcos

  I kept my volume low. “Muskah, don’t move a muscle. Don’t even breathe.”

  The statement was ironic since Muskah could hardly breathe as it was. Air entered his lungs in painful rasps. His wounds had torn wider as we ascended the foothills of Cumorah’s northern slope. Daylight had taken forever to fade. Because of spear and arrow wounds in Muskah’s hind end and a more serious atlatl gash in his back, the mammoth had lost considerable blood. I was hopeful that the wounds in his buttocks had congealed, though it was hard to verify in the dark. The atlatl gash worried me most. Moonlight glinted off a sheen of moist blood.

  The stars blazed like torchlights, forcing my mammoth companion and me to move at a glacially slow, plodding pace. A curious smell of burning petroleum filled my nostrils, more pronounced with every step. I surmised that the Hill Cumorah had already come under attack, on its southern flanks, near the gates of Zenephi, where Commander Mormon was rumored to have filled at least one defensive ditch with bitumen.

  Muskah and I had managed to elude the skulking troops of Teotihuacán for several hours, standing stock-still for long moments as voices whispered in the darkness, shouted orders, or screamed throat-tearing war cries. As the way cleared, we moved slowly through craggy foothills and marshy ravines. Despite Muskah’s hulking size, we hadn’t been detected by the enemy. The landscape was stippled with tree stumps. We crossed territory that both armies considered a kind of no-man’s land. Ahead, stark and bristling against the night sky, stood a ragged line of defense works, mostly timber, which accounted for the scarcity of trees. I perceived vague human shapes—Nephite soldiers—along the fortifications, manning turrets and ramparts, clutching weapons tightly, primed for a fight. I heard a flutter of voices and realized they’d perceived our silhouettes. Surely they judged that we were the enemy.

  The Nephite ranks hunkered down behind the ramparts, pretending to be invisible, waiting for us to wander just a bit closer in hopes of skewering us with arrows or spears. Perhaps they wondered if the mammoth was a kind of siege engine—a battering ram or ballista. I set a hand on Muskah’s trunk. He paused, grunting. My nerves tensed. I feared I’d wandered too close—in range of a volley from their archers. How could I claim I was an ally if I held the reins of what looked like a weapon of mass destruction? After countless teeth-grinding months, these troops were itching to fight, yearning to unleash their pent-up rage on anything that moved. Like me, they could surely smell the petrol. They could hear the resonance of battle on the wind. They clearly sensed that an attack on their position was imminent. Indeed, it was true. As darkness fell, I’d watched column after column of Lightning Warriors massing in the hills and ravines behind me, preparing for a tremendous charge, possibly in the wee hours before daybreak. A single utterance from me might prompt a barrage of missiles.

  I considered my next words carefully, then filled my lungs. “I am a Nephite! In the name of Captain Josh of the Fox Division, I declare allegiance to the Nephites!”

  Shadows and voices stirred along the wall, spreading like dominos east and west of the place where Muskah and I were positioned. That was the cue they needed—that single sound. Bowstrings snapped and atlatls darts whipped. I thanked God for their impetuosity. Their missiles fell short and wide.

  I shouted again. “Joshua of the Fox Division! Joshua of the Fox Division! Joshua of the Fox Division!”

  A voice of reason clamored above the tumult. “Stop firing! Hold your fire!”

  The order was passed down the line. I straightened. Muskah released a low groan, his temper roiling. “Easy,” I said. “Easy.”

  “Who are you?” a voice demanded.

  The voice was gruff. Still, I sensed it belonged to someone young.

  “I am a Nephite!” I proclaimed. “A warrior of Commander Mormon!”

  “A lie!” another voice protested. “He changed his story. He called himself Joshua of the Fox Division.”

  “Keep firing!” soldiers shouted. “Kill the cockroach!”

  Nothing was more to be feared than men intoxicated by adrenaline and bloodlust. Their nerves were as taut as garrotes. They lusted to kill something, anything. Friend or foe hardly mattered anymore.

  “Silence!” Their young commander blustered with greater authority and confidence. “Do not fire! Fire and I’ll sever your limbs!” He called out to me again—slow and direct so I couldn’t misunderstand. “Who. Are. You?”

  “I am Marcos! I serve in the Fox Division of Commander Joshua!”

  The leader seemed to ponder this, then lifted his voice. “Josh’s forces attacked the eastern cliffs just hours ago. He lost many warriors. Why did you separate from your comrades? Are you a deserter?”

  “Not a deserter. It’s true Josh suffered heavy losses. I was ordered to ride north and find another way inside the fortress.”

  “What is that . . . thing behind you?” He referred to the lumbering hulk of Muskah.

  “A beast of burden. A curelom!”

  More murmuring sputtered along the wall. Few seemed to know that word, but the questioner recognized it. “How is this true? Cureloms no longer roam these lands, northward or southward. It is a creature of the Jaredites, centuries extinct.”

  “You were misinformed, Commander.” The title Commander was a guess. A good one.

  “I was told it by my father. And by my grandfather.”

  I knew that voice now. Mormon’s grandson and Moroni’s teenage son, Moronihah. We’d been introduced briefly the night before Josh and I had embarked to hide the plates of gold in the secret vault atop Cumorah. He’d stood amongst other officers and orderlies at his grandfather’s headquarters. I presumed he’d been recently promoted, despite his tender age. Was it sixteen or seventeen?

  Moronihah continued his inquiries. “Why would Captain Josh order you to find another way inside the fortifications?”

  “For the sake of the beast—the eastern escarpments are too steep—and . . . one other important reason.”

  At last, he introduced itself. “I am Moronihah of the Tarantula Division.”

  Interesting. No mention of his blood ties to Moroni or Mormon. I guess he wanted to be recognized for his own merits. Or perhaps he worried that his father and grandfather were viewed with disfavor among many common soldiers.

  “What have you seen?” he demanded. “Where are the troops of Fireborn?”

  I told him what he wanted to know, though I controlled the volume in my voice, fearful of being overheard by enemy ears. “Close. Massing beyond that rise.” I pointed toward a low ridge a quarter mile away. “They are planning an attack. Bring me inside your barricades and I’ll tell you everything I’ve seen. The curelom is wounded and needs medical attention.”

  I heard spurts of derisive laughter. It was understandable. Physicians for men were likely in short supply. Veterinarians were nonexistent. Who would seek medical treatment for a beast—even one so mysterious and presumably extinct?

  Prudently, Moronihah waved me forward. “Come—slowly and carefully. If your curelom attempts to charge or harm my men, we will slay you both.”

  I spoke softly but sternly. “Slowly, Muskah.” I didn’t think this would be a challenge. Slowly was his only operating speed at present. He was hurting and, I suspected, cranky.

  The barricades that crisscrossed the foothills were ten or twelve feet high, reinforced with stone where possible. If Muskah got his blood worked up, his tusks and metal headplate could have made short work of any part of it. Defenses along these northern lines were not as sophisticated as those on the opposite side of the hill, possibly because the rugged landscape already served as a natural barrier to an advancing army. Some segments of wall looked crude, unfinished. Ditches at its base were shallow, full of stones, a ditch-digger’s nightmare. To me, the natural terrain did not betray any particular advantage. It was no excuse for shoddy fortification lines.

  Muskah and I approached what seemed a particularly vulnerable section. Moronihah appeared to compensate for this weakness by massing soldiers at this location. Still, had I been a Lamanite or Teotihuacáno commander, the weakness would have been irresistible. Based on what I observed as Muskah and I plodded toward the Nephite’s barriers, this section was precisely where the enemy would attack.

  The rickety wooden gate creaked as it was thrown aside. A dozen or more Nephite warriors ushered us forward, spears at the ready. I peered into the darkness, right and left. The fortification line snaked unevenly along the foothills. No torch fires burned. Only the moon, stars, and a southward crimson glow illuminated the features of the Tarantula soldiers. I gripped the steel tip of Muskah’s right tusk to prevent it from catching either side of the entryway and tearing out the posts. What a pitiful barrier! All fortifications on this side of Cumorah were pitiful compared to those on the southern and eastern slopes. Bureaucracy. Politics. Arrogance. Any of these were suitable explanations. Somebody had convinced someone else that the vertical climb was barrier enough. It portended a rude and bloody awakening.

  Muskah wheezed with each breath. I was concerned that he’d come about as far as he could. The soldiers stepped back nervously as the beast passed through the gate.