The Knights of J'shua Book 1

Updated 5/6/24

Chapter 1

Rebekah

Flapping linens signaled a change in the wind. Rebekah Otual was trapped in the flurry of nearly-dry sheets. Their chaotic dance restricted her view. She caught only glimpses of the modest thatched cottage that was her home, the rich green woods surrounding it on three sides, the meandering forest trail…and three men on a wagon.

The haunting melody of the wind and the creaking wheels gripped her heart as the gusty breeze chilled her.

Pushing free with rapid breaths, Rebekah instinctively raised a hand in hesitant acknowledgment. Her gaze fixed on the approaching trio, three distinctive silhouettes in a military wagon. She straightened her linen apron and her light pale-yellow shift. The tranquility of her mundane laundry shattered by uncertainty. Panic flickered in her eyes as she searched for her daughter.

Where is she?

The wooden wagon rattled to a stop only twenty paces away. It was empty except for two soldiers seated on each side of the bed wearing royal red brigandines and steel helmets. A thin, fair-haired official dismounted from the cushioned front seat. His gold tunic bore Melazera’s green dragon crest.

Rebekah kept her taut fists under her apron. A visit from an earl’s man was no good thing.

The official walked toward her, smug and self-assured. His every button was polished. Not a scuff on his cordovan boots, nor did a single hair escape its ribbon. He carried a thick book, while an elegantly carved club hung from his belt. “I am George Rosewud, undersecretary to Gaelib Melazera, the ninth Earl of Lorness. I must speak with Rojer Dowling. Call your father, woman.”

“Yes, sir.” She stiffened, peering about for her daughter, pushing a twist of blonde hair out of her eyes.

Where are you, Sarah?

Rebekah relaxed a bit as her aging father appeared, coming in from the fields holding gloves and hoe.

Her parents were well over fifty years but still hale and hearty. Father often recited the Writings from memory and rose early every morning for family devotions. He worked his own fields. She only remembered one rainy harvest that they had hired help to bring in the grain while it was dry.

Still, she wished her husband, Jonathan, were here. His mission into the Republic of Esthlanis had taken longer than expected, almost a moon. But it would be his last. From then on he would be here. He’d been a new Knight of J’shua when she met him, barely eighteen-years-old. She was two years younger. Now eleven years later, She was twenty-eight and he almost thirty. Once he returned, he would be qualified to become a daikon and lead his own circle.

Rebekah bit her lip as her father came closer, sweat dripping from his graying hairline. He leaned on the hoe with a sigh. “What do you want, clerk? We’ve made this moon’s payment.”

“That was recorded,” the undersecretary said. With a mirthless smile, he continued, “However, the earl demands all outstanding loans be finalized.” His thick ledger creaked open. “The amount is…four thousand baden.”

“We have a contract.” Her father removed his wide-brimmed hat, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “He can’t demand it all at once.”

The lifeless brown eyes of Lord Melazera’s undersecretary locked onto him.

One soldier, a towering, dark-haired youth with a face as smooth as a peach, jumped off the wagon. The older one climbed down, straightening his well-worn uniform. He scratched at an old scar trailing across his cheek. Both soldiers stood at attention, statues of disciplined obedience. Each wore a gleaming sword, an ominous reminder of the violence offered.

Sarah jumped out from the hanging laundry. She stomped her brother’s brown, hand-me-down boots and mimicked the soldiers’ stances.

Her plain muslin shift ruffled in the breeze like a flag of truce. Five seashell buttons her da brought home after a mission to Tarinland decorated its front.

She’d inherited Rebekah’s blue eyes and golden blonde hair. Although usually quiet and observant like her father, Jonathan, sometimes her daydreams spurred surprising animation.

Standing straight and tall, as tall as a six-year-old could, her voice rose sweetly, singing a familiar melody she’d learned from him.

“Like a little brave soldier, you will stand,

Like a little brave soldier, you will fight.

Like a little brave soldier, you will pray,

Like a little brave soldier with J’shua’s might.”

A slight smile cracked the young soldier’s stoic face. Rebekah turned to her daughter. “Sarah. Go help Oma with the folding,” she said, her tone clear—obey or get a whack.

The young soldier’s eyes tracked Sarah as she sighed with her whole body and skipped to the cottage, disappearing through the door.

Undersecretary Rosewud’s expression darkened. “The Earl of Lorness demands payment. Now.”

“We have a contract.” Her father folded his arms across his chest.

“Circumstances have changed.” With a menacing glare, he continued, “Of course, you could fight to confirm your rights. Although an old law, trial by combat is not unknown. How do you think you’d fare against my sergeant?”

The old soldier grinned, laying a hand on his hilt, eyes focused on the farmer.

“But…” her father stammered.

Rebekah’s scowl deepened.

The old sergeant leaned toward the boy soldier while eyeing her up and down. “Be pretty if she smiled.”

Undersecretary Rosewud pursed his lips and silenced his men with a glance. “If you don’t have four thousand baden, Mister Dowling, we’ll take your daughter and granddaughter instead. Both look healthy. How old is the girl?”

“Take back the land,” her father said.

Rosewud raised an eyebrow. “Your lord has taxes to pay. I can sell the females in days. The land would take moons. How old is the child?”

“Six.”

Rebekah touched her father’s shoulder as it sank. It would be impossible to reason with this clerk. The sergeant would not hesitate to cut him down.

“We’ll fight another day, Da,” she whispered.

He nodded but he continued begging the undersecretary for more time.

Rosewud pointed. “Get in the wagon, woman.”

“I’ll fetch my daughter,” Rebekah said, head downcast. Her heart pounded as she trudged toward the cottage. Smoothing her muslin apron, she quieted her racing thoughts.

Please J’shua, don’t let anyone follow me.

Attention remained on her father who pleaded for alternatives.

In the cramped confines of the cottage, Rebekah’s bounding pulse echoed her fear of imminent discovery as she noticed her daughter, Sarah, and her mother, crouched behind the open door.

Closing the distance with a quick stride, Rebekah enfolded Sarah in a fierce embrace. The muted light darkened the lines of concern etched into Rebekah’s face. Her fingers brushed away Sarah’s tears. Rebekah spoke with a mixture of gentleness and urgency, cutting through the oppressive atmosphere, “Don’t be afraid, Little Knight,” she whispered, her words a delicate promise against the looming threat. “Run to the woods, to the blackberries. Be invisible, like your da showed you. Hide there until I come find you. It is an important mission.”

Sarah, wiping away tears with a small hand, met her mother’s gaze. In those keen eyes, Rebekah glimpsed the fleeting remnants of childhood innocence, now entwined with the gritty realities of a world that demanded resilience.

Rebekah dropped her daughter to the ground through the rear window like a fragile baby bird thrown from the nest. “Go! Stay low.”

Rebekah’s hands trembled with her desperate hope that J’shua might shield Sarah from the tempest gathering on the horizon.

Sarah landed in a squat and vanished into the undulating sea of grass.

Rebekah saw her girl disappear into the green sorghum. “Lord J’shua, what should I do?”

Her mother’s eyes, as blue and clear as the sky, met Rebekah’s with unwavering resolve. “Jonathan prepared us for any attack. We knew he’d be away on missions most of the time. Your father and I will stall as long as we can. Run in the opposite direction through the east fields; the crop is taller. From there, you can reach Sarah through the woods. May J’shua’s guardians guide you.”

“Mama.” Rebekah’s lip quivered, gazing into her mother’s piercing blue eyes. She couldn’t leave.

Her mother offered a weak smile and pulled her close. “It will be well. Your father and I have had a full, blessed life. We will sleep. When we wake, we will all be together with J’shua Ha Mashiach and the Father. Take your dagger and these coins. Go!”

The moment bore down on Rebekah, an insurmountable burden. Her mother’s love, the weight of responsibility, and this cruel circumstance twisted within her. She clutched the dagger and coins in trembling hands, the tangible remnants of a life she was forced to leave behind.

With a final, tearful glance at her mother, Rebekah turned away, sprinting towards the east fields. The crop rose like a bulwark, offering concealment but also the harsh reality that each step distanced her from the others she held most dear. The echo of her mother’s words lingered, a murmured prayer that fueled her desperate flight.

Chapter 2

Blackhawk

Lieutenant Steven Blackhawk posed rigid, tall with the muscles of a survivor. His raven black hair, hidden mostly by a silver helmet contrasted with a well-fitted, ruby-red brigandine. Only his dark eyes followed the strange little girl skipping toward the door. Halfway there, she bent down, scooped up a wooden practice sword that he hadn’t noticed before, and deftly performed a figure-eight exercise until she tucked it under her arm and disappeared into the cottage.

Maybe her father was a soldier.

He reverted to scanning the horizon. Another farmhouse was visible in the distance, a quarter mile beyond the Dowling’s fields. All other directions were forest. No movement, no threat. The promise of good pay flickered in the depths of his thoughts, providing a glimmer of motivation to endure the boredom ahead. He couldn’t help but think back to how he got this assignment.

Blackhawk had met Sergeant Jonsun at a cheap, dingy tavern in Lorness that soldiers frequented, its shadowy corners humming with whispered secrets. Retreating here from the delicate dance of duty and survival, Blackhawk burrowed deep in the warm, dark, safety, knowing it wasn’t a place any nobility would visit.

After giving his report to Earl Gaelib Melazera, Blackhawk had been detained for several hours to amuse his lord. Blackhawk had left Lorness Castle, gloomy and gritting his teeth, avoiding anyone that might recognize him. Melazera had been asleep when he left.

It had been four years since he saw the earl last. “Don’t think about it. It does no good,” he muttered to himself, attempting to quell the surge of emotions that threatened to surface. The echoes of the past were like shadows clinging to Blackhawk as he navigated the labyrinth of Lorness Castle, each step a deliberate march away from his haunting memories of Earl Gaelib Melazera.

He was again a cold stone when he entered the first tavern he came to. The ale helped.

The sergeant sitting beside him annoyed him with his chatter, but Blackhawk remained pleasant. He ordered another ale.

Melazera sent him away four years ago to become a soldier. His lord made it clear that no one should know that Melazera had raised Blackhawk. North Fort was two weeks east of Lorness. Yet, there was a knowing deep into his flesh that he must always please his lord to stay alive. His reach was boundless. Every morning he suppressed a shiver; his lord’s presence never left him.

When the sergeant had offered the assignment, Blackhawk shrugged and accepted. By the next new moon he’d be expected to present himself to his new billet at High Keep. It only took two weeks to get there. Broke and with no better opportunity before reporting, he’d followed Jonsun out the door. What else would he do with his time?

A lively blast of wind revived him and Blackhawk scanned the surroundings again. The work was tolerable. And it was an opportunity to wear his newly won brigandine, a tangible symbol of his rising status. Before, he only had a gambeson. Even with many quilted layers of wool, it could only blunt a blow. And it wouldn’t stop an arrow. Lined with small steel plates, brigandine provided much better protection. It was well-made, a sign of his bright future. Not that he had needed it this week.

The purpose of a military presence, even a small one like this, was to impress the threat of force. Force made things run more smoothly.

As Blackhawk waited for a command from this Rosewud fop, another woman came out of the small house—an older version of the old man’s daughter. Must be his wife. She carried a woven basket. “Rojer, do we have guests?” She beamed a cheery smile. “I have honey cakes. Would you like some, son? You’re still growing and must be hungry.”

Blackhawk’s gaze softened as he observed her slow shuffle towards him, the embodiment of matronly charm. Before he could respond, however, she stumbled and fell, scattering the contents.

Blackhawk stepped forward with a soldier’s instinct and offered his hand. “Let me help you, ma’am.”

Taking it, she wobbled and groaned as she carefully found her balance and rose. “Thank you. You’re such a dear. Oh, my, I’ve broken some cakes.”

She fussed with the contents of her basket, then offered it to Blackhawk, who’d returned to his place. “This one didn’t break.” Her smile was genuine, a touch of kindness that seemed incongruent with the imposing military presence.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Blackhawk replied with a nod. As she began to turn away, he whispered to the sergeant, “Seems a little touched.”

“Perhaps,” the woman replied, her smile persisting.

Had she heard him? A frisson of curiosity awakened with her response.

She continued, “That’s well enough. Honey cake isn’t for everyone. My uncle hated honey cake. Wouldn’t touch it.” The woman staggered toward the undersecretary, offering him the basket.

Rosewud’s glare cut through the pleasant atmosphere like a blade. “I am the undersecretary of Lord Gaelib Melazera, the ninth Earl of Lorness, here to collect monies he’s owed, not nibble on cakes.”

Blackhawk kept his face blank. He noted that Rosewud used “the” instead of “a.” His lord had eight other undersecretaries. It wasn’t his place to correct him. Rosewud was exactly the type of man Lord Melazera wanted in this role. The earl thought Blackhawk was on his way to High Keep so he would continue to be nobody. To be noticed by anyone connected to the Melazeras brought no good.

The woman blinked. She hobbled toward her husband. “Rojer, don’t we still have silver under the loose stone in the fireplace?”

“Oh, maybe,” the burly old man said as he took her hand and squeezed. “How much do we have?”

Blackhawk wondered if they might have the money. That would be different.

“Well, last year it was quite a sum, but then you had to buy seed….”

“Yes, the seed was expensive. But I harvested a good early crop. I almost opened an account with the money changer,” he chuckled weakly.

“Oh yes, you brought several wagon loads to market. I saved much of the profit. How much does the man want?”

“The undersecretary says four thousand baden, Sweetie.”

“Here, take one, dear husband. I know you love my honey cakes.” She poked through the basket and he picked one. On tiptoes she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Rojer took a bite out of the cake. “Mmm. You sure you don’t want one, sir? My wife’s cakes are the best in all Lorness.”

The old woman smiled, offering the basket again.

Rosewud readjusted the ledger with an air of detachment. He threw a glance over his shoulder and huffed. “Lieutenant, fetch the girl and her mother.” The undersecretary trailed a finger down the page until he came to the Dowling account, making a mark.

Lieutenant Blackhawk searched the small farmhouse. It was empty. “Blast!” He scratched the fine bristles on his chin and sighed. Perhaps not so touched.

In the span of ten days, the operation had unfolded with grim efficiency, no one had dared to flee before.

Turning, he could see the undersecretary through the open doorway. Unable to contain the urgency in his voice, he shouted, “Sir, they’ve run off!”

Rosewud frowned, slamming the book closed.

Blackhawk shifted his gaze to the open window with a sigh, scanning the fields slowly. The sorghum waved in the wind, thick woods beyond. Nothing before him but the hypnotic rhythm. He could feel the time slipping away.

Aha…there, a tiny blonde head.

Hustling back to the wagon, he reported, “I spotted the girl but not the mother.”

“Take a horse. We won’t wait,” said ordered, irritation palpable as he brushed yellow pollen from his sleeve. “Meet us at camp. The woman’s blonde hair and blue eyes will be exotic in Lorness, increasing her price greatly. As will the girl’s. Don’t leave any bruises. Go.”

Then the undersecretary scowled at the conspiring couple. “Sergeant, set an example.”

While Blackhawk unhitched the lead horse, Sergeant Jonsun dashed forward, drawing his sword.

“No!” Mister Dowling pulled his wife behind him.

As the sergeant passed them with experienced precision, he sliced both cleanly across their necks, dropping them in a heap, their hands still entwined. He wiped his blade with the old man’s sleeve and sheathed it.

Blackhawk didn’t flinch. He continued freeing the horse. He had to retrieve the girl and her mother or the fop might not pay him.

“Impressive, Sergeant,” Rosewud said as the grizzly old soldier turned. Then, after a side glance toward the young lieutenant, he whispered, “Check the fireplace. If there’s anything there, we’ll split it.”

Blackhawk concealed his smirk behind a mask of indifference. The fop’s manner was different when Blackhawk was Melazera’s page and he saw George bow before the earl—very submissive. Everyone was.

Blackhawk now knew what Rosewud was capable of and he was relieved the fop hadn’t recognized him. He’d learned early to remain unremarkable to those who came before the earl.

He kicked the horse, riding into the whipping sorghum. A rush of bliss washed over him, spurring the memory of riding bareback when he was only a five-year-old boy. Sitting in front of the earl, wide-eyed and stiff with terror, he fought to breathe, gripping the horse’s rough brown mane with his small hands. Earl Melazera leaned over him as they raced across prairies and through the Lorness woods. Each excursion, he thought he’d die. But he reasoned, even at that young age that Lord Melazera would keep himself whole, and that would keep Blackhawk safe. The earl pursued pleasure, and he always included his favorite servant, Blackhawk.

He shook himself, clearing his head. Focus on the present task. Remain a stone.

The horse was eager and flew through the sorghum and into the dark woods.

There, forced to a walk, Blackhawk called, “Girl, your grandma is worried about you.” His easy lie sounded hollow in his ears, but necessary. “Come out. I’ll take you to her.”

Less and less light filtered through the shadows and shifting leaves the deeper he went. Blackhawk nudged the horse forward, navigating the labyrinth of spring greenery. He ducked under skeletal branches, searching for his prey.

No sign of her. Even the birds were silent.

“Come out. She has a honey cake for ya.”

A rabbit perked, dashing one way, then another. A squirrel scampered up a tree. His horse’s hooves crunched softly until the mare suddenly stopped and pulled at a clump of sedge.

He surveyed the woods surrounding him and a sigh escaped his lips. It was then, as his gaze shifted downward, that he marveled at the girl lying still on the ground, hidden by a camouflage of leaves.

A quiet revelation dawned–he’d never have seen her had the horse continued its stride. Dismounting, he lingered, curious to see how long she could maintain her motionless concealment.

When he was her age, he wouldn’t have lasted a wink. He cringed, remembering many painful pinches, the mildest of his lord’s rebukes. Always, he’d stood beside Earl Gaelib Melazera, exactly two feet away and half a step behind. Even when his lord sat, he stood, expressionless. He pushed the thought away. He was a soldier now and Melazera was far away.

Even knowing where she hid, he couldn’t see or hear her. She didn’t move or make a peep. He finally accepted she wouldn’t give herself away. Needing to return to camp, he crouched down and peered into the girl’s eyes.

She blinked but her expression remained unchanged.

“Let’s go.” Blackhawk gently picked her up, staring into her blue eyes, entranced by this little fair-haired doll who didn’t kick or cry. “Who taught you to hide like that?”

“My da,” she whispered.

“You did better than any soldier I know. Your da would be proud.”

He left the trees with the small girl in front of him. Smoke rose from the cottage so Blackhawk turned back into the forest because he didn’t want to deal with a bawling child. They followed a winding trail through the woods.

The sun was setting when he arrived back at the small camp. He passed four mounted soldiers each with a woman taken in yesterday’s collection sitting docilly in front, hands tied to the pommel. Each soldier held a second rope tied around her waist. He couldn’t see any bruises on them, yet the absence of struggle or any hint of defiance spoke of an intimidation thorough enough to stifle all resistance.

The women would have heard in explicit detail what would happen if they attempted escape, that the soldiers would be free to use them as they pleased, a fate they would think worse than death. The soldiers knew that wasn’t true. These women were far too valuable to the earl. He’d skin any soldier alive if they reduced a woman’s price by even one baden.

When he approached, the soldiers hooted and shouted about the kid lieutenant and his new gal. Blackhawk bristled as they teased him yet again because of his youth.

The first pointed to Blackhawk. “Can’t snag a grown woman?”

“Na, he prefers little girls,” another said nudging his horse into a walk.

They all laughed.

Blackhawk didn’t respond; he never did. He was a stone. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, traversed the camp, observing the dynamics at play.

A few were decent soldiers with good discipline, just poking fun. Most he’d met, both here and at North Fort, were lowborn and gave little thought except to their base instincts.

If he were the officer in charge, he’d enforce more discipline.

Blackhawk had no right to judge, he was an orphan, alive today only at his lord’s pleasure. And even his lord had those baser instincts, but his were tempered with a craftiness that struck fear into the heart of anyone brought before Gaelib Melazera, the Earl of Lorness.

The girl sitting in front of him was still as a corpse, except she turned her head a bit every now and then. She hadn’t cried or spoken so neither had he. Strangest little thing.

Blackhawk clutched the motionless girl in his arms as they trotted toward the iron cage cart. He dismounted with grim determination etched on his face.

Children pressed against the bars. A collective gasp rippled through the retreating captives as he swung open the iron door and pushed the girl inside. When he shut it, a shuddering metallic clang rang through the air.

A good haul, the callous assessment echoed in his mind. Seven boys and six girls reduced to mere numbers in Rosewud’s ledger. The weight of the moment bore down, subtle nuances of emotion played across Blackhawk’s face—a stoic mask revealing little.

After tying the mare to the picket line, he entered Rosewud’s tent. Blackhawk shot a glance at Sergeant Jonsun who stood at attention, glaring. “Sir, I found the girl, but not the mother.”

Rosewud frowned as he polished a boot with a brush. “I’ll be short much baden because that woman got away. Hopefully, the other groups make up for it.” His mahogany chair creaked as he leaned back, contemplating the repercussions. “Jonsun, I want the remains removed. I was told the Dowlings have no living relatives nearby, but they lived in the earl’s domain for generations so they might have other influential ties. Best to leave no evidence. Rumor will continue to serve us.”

The sergeant sighed. “I’ll write up a warrant for the mother and send a detachment to clean up.”

Rosewud’s focus turned to Blackhawk. “What took you so long?”

“I searched for them both, sir. The child was well hidden. If I’d not seen where she went, I wouldn’t have found her. She’s been trained to—”

Rosewud thrust out his palm. “I’m not interested in excuses or crazed notions about children being able to hide from an officer, even you, a mere boy.”

Blackhawk shrugged but kept his face still. “The woman may appear if we wait. I left a trail for her to follow. She will come for her child.”

“No. This has already delayed us. She’s on foot. I’ll be forced to feed the imps if we wait,” Rosewud grumbled, picking up his other boot. “If we leave at first light, I’ll be spared that expense. Bounty hunters will find her.”

Once dismissed, Blackhawk went to the stew pot. Scooping a bite, he sniffed the evening meal—cold, and burnt, as usual. Dropping the ladle back, he sought solace against an old oak, a lone sentinel in the midst of misery. The apathy etched on his face masked the turmoil within as he ignored the cries of the imprisoned children. He was a stone.

Half a dozen other soldiers moved about the camp with hoots and rowdy conversation.

The girl he’d caged stood at attention, watching Blackhawk as he pulled a leather pouch from his belt and drew out a lump of dried meat. Each time a soldier slammed the iron cage with their axe to silence a bawling brat, she seemed unaffected, except to scowl and wrinkle her nose.

As darkness fell, he retired to his tent, wondering how she could remain unflappable.

Chapter 3

Rebekah

Rebekah’s breaths came in ragged gasps as she raced through the first planting, the golden fronds of the sorghum field tall and darkening. This would have been the first field to harvest, a bounty now tainted by the urgency of pursuit.

In the woods, she hopped over fallen branches, familiar with the trail from here to the edge of the younger sorghum field. The field where Sarah had vanished was two acres. It was a long run for her short legs.

Rebekah had grown up here. She knew these woods better than anyone, and Jonathan, her husband, had instilled in her skills of survival, teaching her to navigate any wilderness.

The knights, guardians of J’shua’s words, were trained to spread his message to those untouched by the light, braving the untamed world. There were few inns or even roads to those places.

Her stomach lurched, as the young soldier thundered across the sorghum field, a relentless gallop that sought Sarah.

Panic gripped Rebekah; he’d seen where her daughter entered the woods.

Skirting the field in the shadow of trees, Rebekah sprinted, following the boy and his horse a hundred yards ahead. Listening, scanning for the older soldier, she ran. She only had a knife. Her bow had broken last week. If she’d had it, she’d have killed that brigand before he got any further.

Her golden hair twisted in the wind as she closed the distance. Before she reached the spot where he’d entered the trees, the young soldier emerged with Sarah seated before him, an arm holding her close.

Rebekah grimaced. Everything inside her screamed to run, to rip her daughter out of his arms and plunge her dagger into his gut. To end his life—slowly—so he’d know the suffering he’d inflicted.

Her daughter seized by that drecksa cut deep. A sensation that worsened when he smiled, as if it were a game.

He was a lad. Not that his youth will stay my blade.

Sarah seemed calm. Perhaps she saw it as a great adventure. Often she talked about her dream kingdom, where sometimes she was a knight on a noble quest or a princess ruling her people.

Rebekah’s mind swirled with conflicting emotions–her protective fury clashing with the teachings of the man she loved. Jonathan always encouraged Sarah’s innocent fancies, addressing her as Your Highness or Sir Sarahad when they played. He’d always said, imagination is a powerful tool that the God of Truth uses to teach and train us in his virtues. He’d told Rebekah how he’d fantasized to pass the time when he was locked in a woodshed for a week with no food. She hoped he was right. He’d been six years old as well.

Rebekah couldn’t imagine such a rough life for a child. She had been raised on this farm in the woods, always safe. Loving arms always near. Always secure in the love of J’shua and her parents.

There was no way Rebekah would reach Sarah without a horse. And he had a sword. Crouching, she hid and waited, twisting a strand of her golden hair, counting her breaths until they were gone. She ran back home, hoping her parents were alive, dreading the worst. Rebekah slowed near the back of the cottage and drew her dagger. Fire danced in the window. Carefully, she peered around the corner.

The wagon was gone.

The wall of the cottage was hot. She ran forward as tongues of flame licked the air through the open door. As the curtain of fire roared, she discerned her parents’ crumpled bodies.

She covered her ears, howling at the deafening blaze, railing against this evil. Sobs suffocated her, tears poured down her face. “God, how could this happen?”

On the large table, the Writings still lay open to the Songs she’d read during their morning devotions. One by one, the pages curled up in flame, before meekly crumbling into ash. Beside the door was Sarah’s wooden practice sword.

The grasping fire surged. She stumbled back, shielding her eyes. With one final wail, Rebekah turned toward the woods and ran, wiping her face.

Follow Sarah.

Terrible things had happened to other followers of J’shua. She had asked teachers what they had done to cause it. They said that the Serpent’s chaos could touch us. Our lives no matter how short, were never in vain if we walked in J’shua’s light. We were in the world but not of the world. We would overcome the world.

[Ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy.]

Now it was happening to her. She bit her lip. “Serpent, you will get what you deserve.”

J’shua’s still, small voice spoke in her mind again and wrapped her heart with his peace. “She will be safe.”

She’d get her back. Rebekah looked toward her neighbor’s farm. They’d not been on friendly terms since their younger boy moved the boundary markers. Besides, they only have a donkey, too noisy and stubborn for this. The Canferd’s farm was close. They would lend a horse. No, they also had a loan from Melazera, the Earl of Lorness. They may have lost everything as well.

The Duke of Wooster was an upright man, a follower of J’shua. The nearest farm in his domain was her best chance of finding a property that wasn’t repossessed—and a horse—before dark. He would not allow such evil in his lands.

She ran through the forest aiming for a tree in the distance.

Her chest burned, gasping for air.

Rebekah’s strength waned. She could not run like she used to. Her heart pounded.

When she’d hunted with Jonathan in the early years, it wasn’t always a clean kill. Then they’d run through the woods on either side of the wounded prey, leaping over fallen branches. They never lost sight of it.

She found her rhythm, alternating between walking and running to conserve her strength. It was four miles to the edge of the Province of Wooster.

After two hours’ travel, she crawled through the low grass toward the barn.

No one came out of the house.

She moved slowly, watching. Was anyone in the barn? She sprang to the heavy door and slid through.

Inside was warm with the heat of six horses. They huffed and snorted.

Rebekah patted the withers of a fresh mare, whispering calm words. Her heart thumped in her throat. She bridled the horse and threw on the saddle, pulling the straps tight. Then she flung the door wide.

Holding the reins, bending low, she burst out.

An old man staggered toward her, waving a big stick. “Stop, thief!”

She dodged him, yelling, “Sorry, I’ll return her.”

To confuse pursuers, Rebekah galloped on the stolen horse for a while in the wrong direction and walked in a rocky creek. Finally, she veered back home and returned to where she’d last seen her daughter and the young soldier.

She found the horse tracks leading away from the blackberry patch easily. They wove through the softest dirt. It was a trap. Yet she followed.

The sun was low when the smoke of a campfire reached her. Laughing and drunken arguments filtered through the trees.

A large tent and several small ones peeked out of the brush. There were too many men for her to attempt a rescue. She slumped down in the brush, crying silently.

Startled by two men talking, she hid until their voices grew distant. Creeping through the trees, she circled the camp, but could not see Sarah. She wrung her hands and tried to reassure herself. Rebekah could see smoke rising from a fire amid the tents.

Sarah must be in there. She would be safe until they sell her.

Rebekah ground her teeth. That weasel, Rosewud, wouldn’t allow her to be defiled. He’d lose money.

Rebekah’s only choice was to wait for a better opportunity.

She prayed J’shua would comfort her daughter. She prayed for Jonathan and their eleven-year-old son, David, as well.

The waiting gnawed at her. She couldn’t pace as she usually would when she worried.

What would you do, Jon, when you found us gone and everything destroyed?

How will you find us?

At least David is safe.

He was safe. When Jon left with their son three years ago, it tore her heart out. Why did he have to take her son to far-off Esthlanis for an apprenticeship? He was still too young. He could have become a blacksmith or a baker and stay nearby. Then he wouldn’t have left me until twelve when he’d go to the Knights’ School like his father had.

She wasn’t sure that was best for him. The life of a knight was like a seaman’s, pushed by sail and oars in the waves of chaos. Was it J’shua’s will?

Jonathan was only home for short periods. When he was home she felt safe, whole. She cherished every moment. That’s what a happy life was, wasn’t it, memories of those times? Otherwise, it would be only hard work and misery—and now terror.

Daylight faded into night. She scrounged a few berries to ease her sudden hunger. Tethering the horse farther away, Rebekah hid in a blanket of leaves and waited. She dozed fitfully but woke suddenly to daylight. Laying still for several moments, she strained to hear the soldiers. Nothing.

She crawled toward the camp.

The wagons were gone, leaving only muddled tracks of men, animals, and carts.

How had she slept through their departure?

After returning to her horse, she followed them. Only an hour later, laughter made her stop. They took the old cow trail.

She’d never traveled more than a few days’ ride from home until she met Jonathan. He taught her how to track and hunt. Once married, she never left his side, until Sarah was born. Then they decided she should stay with the children on the farm in Lorness until Sarah was older. They were together every three or four moons. It was the life they had chosen. This was supposed to be his last mission.

She turned her mare toward the most direct route to River Town. She knew where they were going.

I’m coming, baby.

Chapter 4

Sarah

The smell was bad. Sarah shook the cold iron bars, her tiny fingers curled around the unforgiving metal.

She found a dry place to stand amongst the huddling children. The others were older and hugged each other tightly in twos and threes. They murmured head-to-head and never looked up.

The significance of the day’s events eluded Sarah, but Ma’s urgency was clear. She tapped the bar of the cage with her boot.

It had begun as a most beautiful, sunny, laundry day. Her chore was to slosh the clothes about in the wash water. Once everything was clean and rinsed, she played to stay out of the way. She was too short to hang anything on the line. There was nothing for her to do, until the folding.

While the sheets hung drying, Sarah was ensconced in thick, rich curtains, a princess in her beautiful hall, giving orders to her men, when there was a great clatter outside. She ran to the opening and leaped through. With astonishment, she saw that the army was assembling. Two soldiers and a courtier had come to escort her. She stood at attention, ready to lend them her aid.

She thought of the soldier song and had to sing it.

But then Ma gave her a stern look and ordered her to help Oma fold.

As soon as she got inside, Oma placed a finger to Sarah’s lips, shushing her complaint. Oma crouched behind the open door, holding Sarah tightly.

Sarah cupped her hand by her Oma’s ear and whispered, “Oma, why are Ma and Opa crabby?”

Oma did the same when she replied, “He and the earl’s man are having a disagreement. Your ma is worried.”

All of a sudden, Ma came in. Her face all wet, she picked her up briskly. Ma squeezed her tight, too tight, kissing her. “This is important,” she said slowly, clearly.

Oma was staring at Ma, crying silently.

Sarah looked at the basket full of clothes. It must have been very important because no one was folding.

Then Ma lowered her out the window.

Sarah ran and ran and ran toward the blackberries. Her boots barely touched the packed dirt between the rows. Thick lime-green sorghum fronds slapped her face. The stalks snagged her shift and scratched her legs.

She ran on and on—“Oof!”

Sprawling over the ground on crushed sorghum plants, she glared back at the rock. She thrust herself up, panting, and scampered into the shade of the woods.

She stepped carefully to avoid disturbing the old dead leaves. Ripe blackberries dotted the leafy vines climbing over the ground. Only a few were ready to pick when they all hiked here a few days ago.

Opa had said the mild winter brought them early.

She licked her lips.

No, Ma said hide.

Sarah looked for the best spot.

She found the deepest pile of dry leaves and dug a nest in the center. Lying down, she wiggled into the hollow. She cringed at the rustling noise. Stroking leaves from all sides, she covered herself, except for her eyes.

Her da had shown her many ways to hide. It was her earliest memory of him.

He schooled her each day when he was home. Sitting on his heels, his sky-blue eyes even with hers, Da gave her the lesson and the assignment she’d practice that day.

Some days they played hide-and-seek. Da would turn around, close his eyes, and count slowly to ten while Sarah hid. He usually found her right away. If it took him a few tries to find her, he would pick her up and kiss her. His big smile covered his whole face.

He’d taught her all the ways of predators and the ways of prey, little animals and the big ones, too. The rules of hiding flashed through her thoughts.

Use the sides of your eyes.

Move slowly on the diagonal.

Stay still as a stick and be small.

And when that didn’t work, play dead and pray for a miracle.

When you hear the spirit, obey.

He’d taught her how to think clearly, how to listen, how to pray.

She counted her breaths. One, two, three, four, five, six…

A crunch, too loud to be anything but a horse—a man on a horse.

She let her breath out even slower. Da, I lost count.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

The horse moved closer, very slowly.

It’s the boy soldier. He said grandma was worried.

She held her breath. My oma knows where I am.

She let her air out slowly.

One, two…

He said he has honey cake.

I don’t want honey cake. Keep walking, keep walking.

The horse stopped. Boots hit the ground.

Black hair and red armor got off the horse.

Nothing.

Where is he? One, two, three, four…

The light above darkened. The soldier’s big brown eyes squinted down at her. He brushed aside the leaves and lifted her up onto his horse.

Sarah sat in front of the dark-haired soldier. His sweat stank. So did the horse. She’d never ridden bareback before.

She felt the horse’s warm body, its muscles rippling and twitching under her. The soldier held a fistful of her shift against her back.

Her brother’s old boots tapped the horse’s shoulders with every step. She wove her fingers into the long, brown, tangled mane as they rode slowly through the forest, her thoughts frozen and numb. She counted again but kept starting over. The horse ran when the trees became a meadow. She held on tight, leaning on the horse’s neck. The boy’s fist pressed into her back.

She forced herself to think of Da’s lessons. Hiding like prey had failed. Next was to pray for a miracle.

J’shua are you with me?

Yes, Little One. I am. Breathe deep. Can you feel me?

Yes. You are warm like Da’s arms around me.

Her da had told her someday J’shua would ask her to do something hard.

She nodded. She would do it.

With only one horse, my loyal knight and I ride together with an important message for my father, the king, and his great army.

She must have fallen asleep, the smell of a fire wrinkled her nose. Burnt food. Soldiers. More soldiers, more than she’d ever seen. Pointing, laughing. Hawk kept riding past. She shivered, grabbing the horse’s mane tighter. Their eyes bored into her. Sarah’s heart thumped faster and faster.

The boy soldier pulled her closer. It helped.

Then he grabbed her tight and jumped down off his horse. She closed her eyes and went limp.

Play dead and pray for a miracle.

The boy grunted and tossed her to his hip.

At the sound of children crying, she saw a cage.

She had gasped when he shoved her in.

She sighed wondering what J’shua wanted her to do.

Now, looking at the other children, a little boy caught her eye, curled up like a kitten, alone like her. She was filled with the need to care for him.

I see him, J’shua.

The boy had raven black hair, damp curls stuck out in all directions like the baby blackbird she’d found once, peep, peep, peeping. It had fallen out of a tree, bits of eggshell sticking to the wet black feathers. She’d put it in her basket, but Ma made her brother, David, climb and put it back in the nest. He didn’t have a tree.

Sarah knelt over the sleeping boy and patted his back. She stood guard over him, holding onto the bars as the cart lurched over deep ridges in the clay. Trees, dust, brush. No birds or animals anywhere near these noisy men. She wanted this adventure to be over. Blinking back tears, she observed the soldiers with drooping faces tromping behind the cart.

No one looked at her. No one cared. A sheep bleated in the distance, far behind the soldiers.

Two more lessons came to mind.

Righteous anger is better than fear.

Counting is a way to master your will.

One, two, three…

J’shua?

You are safe, little one.

Twisting, her cheek against the bars, she craned her neck to see the men ahead. Without seeing faces, she couldn’t decide about them. But the dark-haired soldier slowed his horse and soon was beside her.

The soldier turned and met her eyes. He smiled.

Sarah scowled defiantly. He’d put her in this stinky cage.

Chapter 5

Owakar

It was the waxing crescent moon of spring, the twenty-ninth year in the reign of King Edal.

Owakar recorded all he observed as he sat on a chipped stone bench in an ancient garden within the barrier. He fluttered his blue silk robe so it lay smoothly over his legs again, concealing his sword. Somehow it always wrinkled. Others managed to look so fine all the time—such a self-centered concern. Even after five millennia, vain thoughts still percolate, the curse of free will.

These overgrown ruins reminded all of the consequences of rebellion. He remembered how beautiful the Garden of God had been. Above him was the celestial sea, a testament to the God of Truth’s grand design.

During the rebellion, the gardens were destroyed and these are the ruins of one. The God of Truth placed a barrier between the sea above and the atmosphere below when he created the heavens and the earth.

[And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.]

[When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?]

This was his first week as an apprentice watcher, a role that filled him with uncontainable joy. Not that the rank brought power, or benefits, or anything like that. Any employment of his time was a blessing. To help the God of Truth’s human family directly had always been a desire of his. So excited, he couldn’t stop grinning.

As the population of the earth grew so did the need for more watchers. He was the observant type and a good writer so J’shua appointed Owakar to the Province of Lorness in Freislicht. Now he would see people of the Density all the time. He could hardly contain himself.

Up until today, Owakar was only a low-level messenger. As a faithful angel, made long before the creation of Adam, Owakar rushed to watchers or guardians with important information. Hundreds of messages, every day.

A few times he even appeared in the flesh in the Density before a real human. He was taught to appear dressed like the person he was to meet. That turned out to be a tattered blue robe and a faded red headscarf. He’d had the training so he would not copy exactly. That would be weird. Owakar spoke what they were to hear and walked away before vanishing.

People were so interesting. They did the most surprising things.

One day, long ago, Owakar arrived unseen and whispered to some men in prison. He suggested they sing, not his idea, but the message he’d been given. Even though their situation was dire and the heathens vicious, they sang. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

Next, there was an earthquake and the prison doors flew open, but the prisoners didn’t run. They stayed and were witnesses of J’shua to their prison guards.

Today, however, Owakar shivered with excitement. He had to do well.

He remained unseen in the secluded garden, reading the luach balanced on his knee. Tap, swipe, tap, tap. The small disk of light ebbed and flowed in brightness and color.

He was still trying to make the thing do what he wanted. “Argh. No. That’s not it.” The luach joined him to the Book of Life, which was vast, multidimensional, and continually refreshed with the knowledge of God. Every word led to streams of thought and intent, individuals and events. Every occurrence a Watcher saw or heard was added to it every day. It contained the evidence for the prosecution of the Serpent’s trial.

Only the God of Truth, the Ancient of Days, could perceive and comprehend all of it, all at once.

[For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.]

The God of Truth resided in his castle in the highest heaven, the third heaven. This is where his holy council met.

The atmosphere that surrounded mankind was the first heaven, filled with strange and magnificent flying creatures, large and very small.

He smiled.

In between these heavens was the second heaven, called the celestial sea. It harbored the first of God’s children, both the faithful and the corrupted. The sea was tumultuous and filled with conflict, the very definition of chaos. The humans had to eat and sleep and shelter from the elements. Angels had none of these concerns. So mostly what they did was talk. Despite the detailed direction in the Book of Life, endless disagreements continued.

The luach glowed.

[Neither give heed to fables and endless genealogies, which minister questions, rather than godly edifying which is in faith.]

Yes, he supposed that applied.

A barrier separated the chaos above from the earth below. Though it failed to shield the earth completely. It allowed the God of Truth to monitor its borders.

In that chaos, the faithful did much of their work. The tasks of maintaining the realms must be overseen. When the Serpent exposed the concept of self-interest many chose to follow it, to follow him. No one could be trusted completely. Yet the God of Truth continued to let all participate in his creation as he always had.

The corrupted ones chose to interfere with the God of Truth. They blocked important messages and impaired the functioning of his creation. They went wherever they willed, or wherever the Serpent bid them go, but Owakar and the faithful walked in the light. They traversed the three heavens freely serving their father, the God of Truth. The faithful preferred to be above with the council or on the earth with humanity, rather than deal with the annoying chaos. He certainly did.

Owakar could change location with a thought when on the earth in the Density. He could float like a cloud or walk on the ground. To the people of the earth, he was invisible, thin as atmosphere.

If he materialized, he became subject to the physical laws of their world so he was careful not to stay solid too long. Owakar could not die but he could suffer. Suffering looked terrible. He’d felt cold and hunger before, but he’d never suffered. He observed the suffering of the followers of J’shua that Earl Gaelib Melazera persecuted. When the earl’s spies found a circle meeting, he sent soldiers to arrest the people for disturbing the peace. They would be imprisoned without a trial until someone paid for their release, just one example of this lord’s ungodliness.

The Warrior strolled into the ruins while Owakar considered the people of Lorness below. He was a great prince and a devoted follower of the God of this Age, the Serpent. “Owakar, how are you this fine day?” He leaned in trying to read Owakar’s luach.

Owakar stiffened and pushed it in his robe. “I am well, Warrior. Is there something you would tell me? Have you repented?”

“Although I and my fellows are accused and shunned because of our exercise of choice, the rightness of our cause will soon become obvious.”

“Yes, yes, so you keep saying.” Owakar glanced about looking for his mentor, Alocrin.

The Warrior glowered. “We will continue to accuse these humans before our creator and proclaim our righteousness and the futility of our father’s gambits. We shall prevail. Surely you can see that.”

“No, Warrior, I do not see it. I trust our father. It is written:” The luach sparkled and Owakar read it to him,

“[Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.]”

“How quaint. Good day, Owakar. I have people to entertain.”

Owakar sighed as the Warrior disappeared.

The first man lost the essence of holy spirit and was banished from the Garden of God when he disobeyed the God of Truth. By slowing his body, which had been made of light until it was solid, he was prevented from all access to his former home. His new home was called earth, but the spirits of heaven, still made of light, called the earthly plane, the Density.

Now, mankind, with their limited view, saw only the Density. They could only observe the spirit realm when J’shua deemed it necessary as they grew to trust and ask for wisdom. Or if they were foolish enough to accept the counsel of a corrupted one.

As Owakar immersed himself in the luach, messages flowed, and he longed to grasp J’shua’s strategy.

J’shua became the commander when he ascended to the God of Truth’s right hand and accepted leadership for the host of heaven. After all the requirements were fulfilled, God poured out holy spirit to the humans that trusted his son. They shared with others and the good tidings spread.

A shiver ran through him as J’shua described a special task.

[Each is a chosen vessel unto me.]

A man drove up in a wagon carrying two soldiers. Owakar saw no demonic activity so this was the result of human greed and selfishness and they were simply following orders.

The old woman prayed bringing moments into greater focus. It was awful not to intervene, but he had his orders. Then the younger woman also petitioned J’shua with the words of her language and spiritual prayer. The little girl ran through the field. She was the one he must help.

Then Owakar caught the movement of the old soldier from the corner of his eye as he killed the old couple. Owakar groaned, “J’shua, how can this be?”

It was his first assignment as a watcher. Evil things happened to good people. Unfortunately, all the choices of mankind led to oppression by evil men. It was the natural order.

Why do they have to suffer?

More elements of the Book bubbled up:

[To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.]

Owakar placed the fading luach back in his robes. He could not believe the directive. “J’shua?”

[For man also knows not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falls suddenly upon them.]

J’shua soothed him. Keep to your task.

Owakar sighed. She is so young to be called to a mission.

[…for such a time as this.]

“I see,” Owakar said, his eyes wide like an owl’s. Sarah was significant to some plan directly from the council, and he must keep her alive. Yet not reveal her importance to the Warrior.

“We will keep her whole through her quest.” He bowed. “I will come before you to report when she attains her place.”

He inhaled deeply and held his breath, letting it out in a huff when J’shua’s presence left him. Owakar would enter the holy throne room and present his report at that time. What was a long time to humans, especially young humans, was a blink of an eye to a watcher.

Owakar sent guardians across his domain, two by two. They would ensure she was never alone.

Where was Alocrin? He needed his mentor’s advice.

The luach thrummed again.

Alocrin had been detained to give his deposition.

The Serpent persisted with schemes to win his case. He continually brought counter-allegations against the God of Truth. Already the trial spanned five millennia. Would it ever end?

Depositions took a long time. Alocrin had been a watcher for many, many years. Deposing him might take days and days. He wondered if he himself would be deposed someday.

The Serpent was wily, but the God of Truth was just. He was also thorough.

[Out of thine own mouth will I judge thee, thou wicked servant.]