For days, we practiced patience. Uriel sat in silence while I searched my kinnor for new sounds. My master said perhaps we awaited a visitor, one important enough for the Holy One to delay our travels. Yet, except for Yonaton, who came to visit often, not a soul entered the valley. As first light seeped through the trees at the dawn of the following week, I again asked, “Master, where are we going now?”
The prophet sighed. “I do not know.” He lowered himself onto the cave floor. “Please play.” No sooner had I reached for my kinnor than a rush swept past me, as if the cave had exhaled its contents. My master’s body trembled on the ground; this time, his soul ascended faster than I’d ever seen. Ignoring my instrument, I hitched our things to Balaam.
As I tied the last bag to the donkey, Uriel stepped out of the cave, his face ashen.
“Have you received instruction?”
“Yes. We must go now.” The quiver in his voice silenced any further questions.
I led Balaam up the hill toward the road.
“Not that way.” Uriel pointed down the hill toward a narrow track that wound north across the valley floor and snaked up the far ridge. “This way,” he insisted, already moving as he spoke.
I touched my father’s knife, concealed beneath my tunic. Shimon disappeared down that path right after telling me not to use my knife and had not reappeared since. I shook my head to clear the image of Shimon’s scarred face, and turned Balaam to follow Uriel.
A voice called out behind me, “Wait! Don’t go yet.” Yonaton weaved down the rocky hillside, his sister Yael trailing behind. “My parents sent provisions for your journey.” Yonaton pulled two large loaves and a cake of pressed figs from the skin slung over his shoulder. Yael struggled under a massive, green-skinned melon.
I untied the top of one of the donkey bags and carefully added Yael’s melon. Yonaton placed the bread and figs on top of the swollen fruit. Even though we’d parted only the night before, I was glad to see my friend one more time. We embraced quickly.
“Go in peace. And take care of Master Uriel.”
Uriel still descended the trail, heedless of the gift we’d received. I squeezed Yonaton’s hand one last time. “I’ll see you next year,” I said, then led Balaam at a trot after my master.
Early grasses and mud-filled hollows slowed our progress. We traveled all that day along the overgrown trail, encountering no one. When the sun dropped below the horizon, Uriel pointed to a cave on the hillside. As we ascended through the trees, I gathered an armful of firewood. The prophet inspected the shelter while I arranged the wood outside its entrance.
“No, Lev.” Uriel emerged from the darkness within. “Tonight, we light the fire inside.”
I gazed up at the cloudless sky—it was a shame to spend the night in a smoke-filled cave when we knew there was no chance of rain. Did Uriel think that Eliyahu had relented already? I turned to ask, but my master’s gaze was fixed on the breeze whispering through the oak trees below, and I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him.
Uriel sat outside, gazing out into the darkness as I cooked dinner. When I finished, Uriel accepted a bowl of wheat porridge without a word, laid it beside him, and turned back to his contemplation.
The two of us had hardly spoken since leaving that morning. I knew he preferred to be left to his own reflections, but questions filled my mind. “Master?” I said quietly.
Uriel turned toward me, firelight flickering in his eyes. “Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about Eliyahu. Won’t his curse also hurt those who don’t bow to the Baal? Like Yonaton’s family?”
“Indeed. A curse brings suffering without making distinctions. It falls upon the guilty and the innocent alike.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Even the one who called down the curse is not spared its destruction.” He turned back to the darkness, his bowl of porridge untouched, congealing in the cool night air.
I thought of Seguv, dead soon after coming of age, never married, never a father. He didn’t fall in battle or struggle for his life. He was the victim of a curse uttered five hundred years before he was born.
Yet, it wasn’t Seguv’s death that brought tears to my master’s eyes. Was it Eliyahu’s curse? Did he feel the pain of farmers like Yonaton’s family, who would suffer without rain despite their loyalty to the Holy One? Was he thinking of Eliyahu himself? I didn’t think so. These were not the quick and hot tears of anger or pain; they were the seeping tears of deep sadness. I cried this way when I finally accepted that my mother would never come back for me. These tears sprang from a well deep within.
But it wasn’t my place to pry. I turned to serve myself and caught sight of Balaam, grinding his teeth at the side of the cave, our bags still hitched over his back—how had I not noticed he was still burdened? My uncle would have sent me to bed hungry for such callousness. I moved to unload him, but Uriel stopped me with a grunt and a single shake of his head. Apparently, the donkey would have to sleep ready to travel. I left my master to his thoughts and returned to the cave to eat alone.
I dreamed of stars, my shadow floating across the jeweled sky. In the darkness, a mountain rose before me, a palace perched on its crown. Silently, the air shifted, and I flew forward on the breeze. The palace grew until it filled the night sky. A dim light flickered through a window set high in the outer wall. I glided onwards, landing on the sill of the window.
I knew the room below by its tall columns, carved like date palms, marching in two lines down the center, their bases lit by torches, their tops lost in shadow: the throne room of the King. Two thrones presided over the room, just as I remembered; the King’s was empty, but Izevel sat arrow-straight on the one crafted for her father. Her hands gripped the heavy wooden arms of the chair, her olive skin glowing in the torchlight. Even though the throne dwarfed her small frame, the fire in her eyes and her air of command made it seem as though it could barely contain her force.
“You summoned me, my Queen?” The deep voice echoed through the cavernous room. In the firelight, Yambalya’s violet robes looked nearly bloody, and they swirled as though carried on a wind as he approached.
“Yes. Have I acted too soon?”
“No, my Queen.” Yambalya bowed before her, exposing the laddered scars on the back of his neck. “You were right to act now.”
“And the people will not protect them?”
“They are sheep. They will not rise against us without the leadership of their king.”
“That they will not have.” She moistened her lips with her tongue and curled them in a serpentine smile. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the priest closely. “Baal has not informed you where he is to be found?”
“No, my Queen. The movements of one man, no matter how bold, are not a matter of note to mighty Baal.”
Izevel leaned forward, her tapered fingers white on the clawed arms of the throne. “But he stopped the rains.”
The cords of Yambalya’s neck grew taut. “Yes, he stopped the rains. Their god is still strong in this land. But when their prophets are gone, the people will learn to fear Baal.”
“Their prophets, yes. Most of their prophets are weak. But as long as this one remains alive, he gives the people strength. We must find him.”
Yambalya’s eyes burned in the torchlight. “The servants of Baal seek him even now. They have never failed in the hunt. He has not been seen since casting his curse. We believe he has fled the land.”
Izevel laughed. “There is nowhere for him to flee. I watch the roads, and I have sent word to my father. He rules the sea. We will find him.”
“Indeed we will, my Queen. I have read his future in the stars.”
Izevel bent her head forward, close to Yambalya’s. “What have you seen?”
“Eliyahu will not die the natural death of men—to this I will swear.”
Izevel settled back in her throne, her face flushed with pleasure. “Excellent. I will hang his body from the walls of Shomron for the crows to devour. Let his death be a message to all who would stand against us.”
“Yes, my Queen. It will be done.”
Uriel shook me awake before the sun, the image of Izevel still looming in my mind in the half-light. I wanted to ask my master about the dream, but his distant eyes still defied interruption. As I stepped out of the cave, the old prophet stared back up our path in the direction we’d come. He sat down on the earth, placed his head between his knees, and was soon trembling with the spirit of prophecy.
By the time my master returned, our bedrolls were repacked and Balaam ready to travel. Uriel swept past me, stepping out of the cave and down toward the trail. “We have to move quickly. There isn’t much time.” He didn’t elaborate as he dropped into the brush below our camp. Balaam trotted to keep up.
The navi kept to a driving pace all day. Daniel once told me that Uriel didn’t concern himself with taking the shortest or fastest paths, that his goal was to travel among the people. Yet, we met no one along our path. What had changed?
The late afternoon sun had already reached the western ridge when Uriel finally stopped with a raised hand and gazed back up the trail. I spotted a man in the distance running toward us. Uriel increased his pace, but in that brief pause, a sad smile flit across his face.
The runner drew closer, but Uriel didn’t slow or turn again. I kept glancing back over my shoulder, measuring the runner’s progress as the trail rolled up and down between the hills, gently climbing toward the west. When our pursuer reached the hilltop directly behind us, he paused and bent forward, hands on knees to catch his wind, then straightened and resumed running down the hill. In that moment, the dying sun illuminated his features, and I realized he wasn’t a man at all, just a boy: Yonaton.
Uriel did not pause until Yonaton caught up with us. Gasping for air, he tried to speak, “They’re looking—”
Uriel cut him off with his own skin of water. “First drink. You’ve had a hard journey—it was brave of you to come.” The tenderness in Uriel’s eyes contrasted with the rigid impatience of his body.
Yonaton gulped down the skin of water and began again to deliver his message. “Yesterday afternoon they came looking for you. They were part of the Queen’s personal guard. I recognized them from the wedding. They heard that I played during the gathering. They came to my house and had me lead them to the valley, where they searched all the caves with swords drawn. They asked me where everyone had gone. I told them that you were the last ones to leave that morning. They asked which direction you went, and I pointed them toward Jericho.” Exhausted by the flood of words and gasping for breath, Yonaton doubled over.
My mouth went dry. I pictured the long column of soldiers that had escorted Izevel to her wedding. How many had remained behind?
“How many were they?” Uriel asked.
“Four,” he forced out. Yonaton held up as many fingers without standing straight.
“You saw them go toward Jericho?”
“Yes. I wanted to come and warn you immediately, but it was already too dark, so I came at first light.” I thought of the fire inside the cave and Balaam remaining burdened all night, ready to travel—had Uriel known?
“You brought nothing with you?”
“When I finished my food and water, I dropped the skins so that I could run faster.”
My feet ached in sympathy. I had a hard enough time keeping up with Uriel; I couldn’t imagine trying to overtake him. Yonaton stood barefoot—had his sandals also slowed him down?
Uriel sighed, turned his eyes to the sky, and shook his head. “Again, that was very brave of you. I doubt you can appreciate how much you risked coming after us. You will need to stay with us now. It is no longer safe to return.”
“Why? They don’t know I’ve come.”
“They do. You were followed.”
Yonaton and I turned as one, but saw nothing other than the wind playing over the low hills in the distance, stirring the brush.
“You won’t see them.” Uriel shook his head. “They will stay out of sight until they are ready.”
I gazed up at my master. “Ready for what?”
“Surely you can reason that out for yourself?” Uriel started again up the trail. “Come, we must go on.”
Despite the prophet’s words, Yonaton was too drained by his run to do more than trudge along. When the sun set, we were forced to a crawl. Our trail wound through a steep ravine, already deep in shadow. Balaam brayed as he struggled to find footing on the loose rocks. After one particularly loud protest, Uriel laid his hand on the donkey’s nose. “Peace, old friend.” He gazed up at a rocky outcrop on the hillside above us. “Stay here. I want to examine that cave.”
Uriel displayed no sign of fatigue from the day’s march as he climbed up the steep slope and disappeared between the shadowed boulders. Moments later he reappeared and yelled down to us, “Come up. This looks like a good place to spend the night. Lev, see to the donkey. Yonaton, gather wood.”
It took all of my skill to coax Balaam up to our resting spot. By the time I finished tying up and watering him, Yonaton came back with a double armful of wood. “Build the fire inside the cave,” I whispered. “That way it won’t be easily seen.”
“No, build it outside tonight.” Uriel turned away before either of us could question him.
I struggled to prepare the evening meal—a large crack at the back of the cave drew the wind right through the hollow, turning our shelter into a chimney. My eyes stung as smoke swirled in the cross-draft, and the fire licked my fingers from every side. Any feelings of security brought about by finding cover faded with the dying daylight. Our pursuers couldn’t be far behind Yonaton. I stared out into the night as I cooked—listening.
Uriel hummed softly to himself in the back of the cave, unpacking and repacking our gear, while Yonaton snored between us. I gazed up at the stars. Was it really less than three months since Dahlia and I lay on the wall watching them, wondering what the future held? Was I now gazing at them for the last time?
Uriel finished packing and came to the mouth of the cave. “Take the food off the fire, it is time to eat.”
My eyes watered from the smoke. “It’s not done yet, Master.”
“We have given it as much time as we can afford. Take it off and wake Yonaton—he must be famished.”
Yonaton indeed ate as much as Uriel and myself combined. Once we finished, I picked up the pot to scrape it, but Uriel put up his hand. “There is no time for that. In any case, we cannot take it with us. Yonaton, throw the remaining wood on the fire. As long as it is burning high, it will appear as if it is tended. There will be no attack until they think we’re asleep.” I could see the whites of Yonaton’s eyes as he stared around out into the darkness. “When you’re done, we’ll leave.”
A column of sparks twisted up into the darkness when Yonaton dumped the last armload of wood on the blaze. Uriel led us to the back of the cave and handed us each a pack. “I’ve gone through and separated out only the most essential things. We’ll need all our strength.”
“What about Balaam?” I turned back toward the donkey, tied at the entrance.
Uriel sighed. “He stays. Leaving him tethered in front is the best sign that we are still in the cave.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“You think this poor payment for hard service?” Uriel raised his eyebrows. “Fear not. Men do not kill a beast of burden without cause. Balaam is wise. He will make his way with a new master. Or perhaps find his way back to his old one.”
I appraised the pile of belongings to be abandoned. My kinnor rested on top. I trusted Uriel that we would need all our strength, but the kinnor wasn’t a drain on my strength—it was a source of it. “I won’t…” I insisted, “I can’t…” I picked up the instrument, cradling it against my chest. “I’ll carry it, the extra weight won’t slow me down. I promise.”
The fire sent shadows jumping and dancing on the cave walls, reflecting crimson on Uriel’s tunic. “I’m sorry, Lev.” He pulled the instrument from my weakly resisting hands and tucked it on top of a high rock cradled by a furrow in the cave wall. “It is well hidden there. May we merit to retrieve it.”
I swallowed the bulge lodged in my throat, avoiding Yonaton’s eyes. I laid my index finger to my father’s knife beneath my tunic, suddenly grateful that I kept it on me at all times—would Uriel have made me leave that behind as well? Probably not. Shimon’s dagger jutted through my belt, and he hadn’t mentioned it.
But Yonaton’s attention wasn’t focused on me anyway. He peered into the crack at the back of the cave that began along the floor and rose into a narrow channel, splitting the cave wall to the ceiling. “You don’t expect us to get out this way, do you?”
“There is no other path. They are watching the front.”
“But it’s too narrow—even Lev won’t fit through.”
Uriel approached the wall and ran his hand up and down the fissure. Behind him, the new logs burned down and the gathering darkness urged us to hurry. How much longer would our attackers wait? Uriel’s eyes rolled back in his head; his voice echoed in the close cave. “You split the rock for Samson at Lehi, bringing him water and restoring our spirit. Only You can open our way and bring us out into life.”
The prophet’s hand rose above his head like a general’s in war, then came down with force, striking the rock with his staff. Nothing happened.
“You opened the mouth of the well for Israel, sustaining us in the wilderness. Open now our way and bring us out into life.” There was a sharp crack as Uriel swung again, with the same result.
Yonaton stared at the dirt floor, his shoulders tense. Balaam brayed in the silence. Was he just restless, or did he sense someone approaching?
Fists now clenched, Uriel leaned in close to the wall and hissed between clenched teeth, “In the name of the Holy One, I say this is the moment for which you were formed!”
A low rumble shook the cave. I grabbed Yonaton for support. His bulging eyes met mine as our hands trembled within each other’s grasp. When the tremor stopped and the dust settled, the opening at the top of the crack had grown to twice its width.
Uriel led the way. As his feet disappeared, I gripped the rock and pulled myself upwards, taking shallow breaths as I wormed after my master in the darkness. The channel narrowed; sharp rocks scraped my arms and cut into my fingertips. Dirt rained on my hair, and the welcome smell of moist earth reached my nose.
When I emerged into the moonlight, Uriel’s arm thrust out like a beam across my chest, holding me back from a deadly misstep. We stood on a slender ledge, overlooking dark tree-tops. Yonaton squeezed out behind me, and I put out a cautionary arm to protect him as well.
We were on the far side of the hill. The half-moon hovered above the horizon in the western sky, casting a silvery light across a different valley than the one we’d hiked that morning. We climbed down the cliff at a slug’s pace. At first, I placed my hands and feet wherever my master did, but soon Uriel’s long legs carried him over a patch of jagged rocks that I had to scramble through. By the time I bridged the gap, the prophet had disappeared.
The night air blew across my sweaty forehead; I shivered with the chill. I reached out with my right leg, searching for a foothold in the smooth rock. My body tensed, and my knee began an odd jumping motion. Even if I found a foothold, would my leg hold me? I reached farther down and straightened my quivering knee. My moist hands were slick against the rock. My foot slid, and I felt my grip loosen. A call for help died in my throat as I fell.
The ground was rough, but it was only a handsbreadth beneath my foot. The shock of so sudden a landing choked the cry in my throat. Uriel’s strong hands kept me from sliding down the slope. Regaining my feet, I saw the prophet in the moonlight beside me, a finger to his lips.
Climbing down in the dark seemed easier for Yonaton. He crouched at the bottom of the cliff, probed with his foot, and dropped lightly to the ground.
We weren’t down yet. The ground was a patchwork of brambles and sharp-sided heaps of stone. Awkward as I was descending the rock face, endless days spent chasing sheep over this terrain allowed me to slip smoothly down the hillside. At the bottom, Uriel dropped into a muddy streambed at the base of the hill. I sat down on the edge, swung my feet forward, and landed softly next to my master. A muffled cry came from above. Yonaton slithered down the side of the streambed, hitting the ground with a scrape and a hiss.
Uriel pulled Yonaton into a patch of moonlight to examine his leg—a dark gash marred the white of his hairless shin. Uriel grabbed the end of his own linen cloak, tore off a long strip, wrapped the cut and pulled hard on the ends. Yonaton winced and bit his lip as the prophet tied off the bandage.
We crossed the narrow streambed and picked up a faint trail. Despite his limp, Yonaton scurried uphill, his boyish features set with determination.
Voices drew my attention back toward the opening on the opposite hillside. In the darkness, the remnants of our fire sent a flickering, red glow through the crack that had freed us. It blacked out for an instant as a body slipped through the light’s path, moonlight glinting off the sword stretched out before him.
Uriel clamped our shoulders with a grip that urged silence, forcing us to squat on the ground.
The soldier leaned across the ledge and scanned the hillsides. Was the pale moonlight sufficient for him to pick us out among the scrub and boulders? Did his roving head pause when it reached the spot where we crouched? I pictured him sniffing the earth, like the wild dogs in the hills above Levonah. They always found the injured sheep before the shepherds did.
The crack blacked out again as the soldier reentered the cave. Yonaton and I exhaled, but Uriel yanked us to our feet and spun us by our shoulders. “Come, we must move quickly. They’ll circle around the hill. It will be faster for them.”
“Where are we going?” Yonaton touched the wet wrapping on his leg, where blood already seeped through.
Uriel didn’t answer.
The moon dropped beneath the horizon, obscuring the uneven ground, and forcing us to slow our pace even further. But I didn’t mind the darkness: it concealed us as well.
I stumbled again and again. Yonaton limped along behind me, grunting whenever his shin brushed against obstacles on the unseen trail. Uriel pushed on ahead, surefooted and silent in the near-total darkness.
Uriel held up a hand and tipped his head back as if sniffing the wind. “Get down,” he breathed. We lowered ourselves softly between the boulders at the side of the trail. I turned my head as I lay, my eyes glued to my master. With my ear pressed against the dirt, I felt a pulsing rhythm in the earth. Hoofbeats.
An impossibly tall figure appeared against the stars. As the shadow drew nearer, it revealed itself as a soldier on horseback. The animal stepped slowly between the boulders. Its questing gait indicated the soldier didn’t know our location. Loud breathing drew closer, and a soft whinny sounded at our side.
I swallowed my breath, willing my heart to beat more quietly in my chest. The rider, sitting so far above the ground, could not see what lay at his feet. But how much did he trust his horse? How much did he understand it? The soldier could hear nothing above the heavy breathing of his steed, but would he surmise from the horse’s agitation what the animal already knew: that three people lay on the ground before him?
Our faces remained pressed to the dirt as the soldier continued past us without breaking stride. Once I could no longer hear the horse’s steps, Uriel rose again to his feet and increased his pace. Where was he going?
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.
A hand closed over mine. I peered into Yonaton’s eyes, afraid of finding pity there, but seeing only understanding. Yonaton took the sword and plunged it into the soldier’s chest. The man twitched on the end of the blade, then went still.
I gawked at the bloody sword, then crashed to my knees. The little food I’d eaten the night before came up first, followed by heaves of bile.
“Come on!” Yonaton pulled at my tunic. “There are more of them.” He yanked the heavy weapon from the corpse and sprinted back toward the heart of the battle.
I pulled myself upright—my master needed me. Wiping the mess from my face, I ran after Yonaton.
In the clearing, the hawk-eyed soldier still chased Shimon. Uriel smashed his staff into the nose of the stocky soldier’s horse, and the rider grabbed at the reins to keep his balance as the horse reared. While he fought to get the horse back under control, Uriel slipped in closer, pummeling blows upon them both. Once the soldier regained his seat, he brandished his sword to hold off Uriel’s assault.
But the stocky soldier’s focus was diverted from the rest of the battle for a moment too long. Shimon saw the opening and veered toward the center of the clearing. The hawk-eyed soldier giving chase called out, but to no avail—all his comrade’s attention was fixed on fending off Uriel’s attack. He spun at the sound of a horse bearing down on him, but too late. Shimon jammed my knife into the soldier’s neck. His eyes bulged and his jaw sank as he looked down upon the hilt of the knife protruding from his throat. He toppled sideways off the horse as the animal broke free.
The hawk-eyed soldier shrieked at the sight of his companion’s collapse. He swiped at Uriel as he rode past, but the prophet blocked the blow easily with his staff. He rode on after Shimon, who was now unarmed.
Yonaton called out, “Here!” and thrust the blood-stained sword in the air. Shimon’s horse leapt forward, and I launched a rock at the soldier to hold him back. Shimon snatched the weapon from Yonaton’s hand and spun in time to block a thrust from the hawk-eyed soldier’s sword.
Now Shimon had no need to run. He closed in on his adversary. Shimon’s sword descended like a bolt, and the soldier raised his blade to block it. The clang of iron on iron sounded through the clearing as the soldier’s sword broke off its hilt from the force of the blow. Shimon swung his sword in a wide circle around his head, then struck true. The soldier tumbled from his horse. His body slammed to the ground with a thud, followed by his head, which rolled to a rest at Uriel’s feet, hawk-eyes gaping up at the old prophet.
