Unholy Night (12 page)

The second soldier twisted his torso, winding up for a ferocious swing. But with his side momentarily exposed, Melchyor shoved the blade through the space between his front and back armor plates, upward through his intestines.

His sword was still in the second soldier’s gut when the third came at him, swinging for his head. Using his short stature to his advantage, Melchyor ducked beneath the blade, yanked his sword free, and struck back at the off-balance opponent, cutting the soldier’s throat with such force that only his spine stopped the blade from going all the way through.

The forth and fifth soldiers attacked together, bringing their swords down on Melchyor’s head in unison. Melchyor used his own sword to shield himself, then did something incredibly stupid. Something that ran counter to everything anyone had ever been taught about sword fighting:

He dropped to his knees, as if in prayer.

The soldiers kept striking. But their blows were different. Weaker, clumsier. And now Balthazar saw the brilliance of what Melchyor had done. The Judeans wore large steel breastplates to protect their organs. Plates that ran from their necks to their belts. And while these were great for protecting their innards during an upright assault, they made it difficult for them to bend forward and robbed any strike below the waist of its power. All Melchyor had to do was keep blocking their awkward blows and wait for one of them to make a mistake.

The fourth soldier made just such a mistake, leaning too far forward and falling on his face to Melchyor’s left. A second later, he paid for that mistake with his life, as Melchyor drove the sword into the back of his neck, severing his brain stem.

Now it was just one-on-one. The last soldier wasn’t quite as hopeless a swordsman as his companions, but he wasn’t particularly good, either. After becoming the only man to make contact with Melchyor’s body—landing a graze across his shoulder—he went for the kill, thrusting forward. But his sword was too far out in front of his body, his feet too far apart. Melchyor knocked the soldier’s weapon out of his hands and thrust his own forward. The fifth soldier held his hands up in an attempt to block it, but Melchyor’s sword simply went through his left hand, pinning it to the soldier’s face an instant before the tip of the blade lodged in his brain. Melchyor held it there until he felt the soldier’s full weight hanging dead in the air, then pulled it out, letting his useless body fall to the ground.

Now it was Balthazar who’d been rendered mute.

The little Greek was the best swordsman he’d ever seen. Quicker, more powerful than any man had a right to be. There couldn’t be a doubt about it. Criminals were a bragging breed, but this had been no boast. This was
fact
.

“I told you,” said Gaspar. “Best in the empire.”

A second ago, there’d been five soldiers bearing down on them. Now there were five men lying in the street—two of them dying, the other three dead. There were so many questions. So many tricks to learn. But they’d have to wait. The screams of women and children were still coming from every corner of the village.

Balthazar and Gaspar each grabbed a sword from one of the dead soldiers, then mounted their camels and rode as fast as they could.

Joseph’s prayers weren’t answered. There were soldiers outside. Dismounting. Any second, they’d cross the threshold.

Had the shepherd been forced to give them up? Had the criminals sold them out for a reward? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing but the plan. Joseph was a simple shepherd, cleaning up his stable. No, everything would be fine. They’d question him; they’d leave. What use was there in looking around unless you enjoyed the smell of goats and their filth? All he had to do was stay calm. Not come off as nervous or jittery. All the baby had to do was stay quiet.

There were three of them. Two younger, one older, the latter with a more intricate helmet and breastplate. An officer of some kind, if Joseph had to guess. They entered and took in what little there was to take.

“Who are you?” asked the officer.

“A simple shepherd, sir. This is my stable. These are my goats.”

The officer examined Joseph’s face for a moment, then looked around again. It wasn’t much of a stable. Hardly worth his time. There were a thousand places to hide in Bethlehem. Almost any of them would’ve been more appealing than this one. What would a baby be doing in a stable, anyway?

Satisfied that only the lowliest forms of life would stoop to sleeping in such a place, the officer motioned to the other soldiers to follow him out.

Joseph felt a wave of relief wash over him. He’d done well. He hadn’t come across as nervous or jittery. The baby hadn’t—

“What was that?”

The officer spun around. He’d nearly been out the door when a squeal had filled the little stable. Not the bleating of a goat. Something different.

“Just a goat, sir.

The officer was on the verge of convincing himself that it was nothing, when another squeal came from one of the stalls on the right. This one almost a laugh.

No, Lord…please…

Under a thin covering of hay and manure, Mary had her hand pressed to the baby’s mouth, trying desperately to stifle her son’s cooing.

“It’s just the animals, I assure you.” Joseph had lost his calm. He could feel himself beginning to sweat, feel himself getting nervous and jittery.

“Hold him.”

The other two grabbed Joseph and forced the pitchfork from his hand. They held him against the wall while the officer drew his sword and began opening stall doors.

“I’m telling you, it’s just the anim—”

“Quiet!” The officer turned to his men. “If he talks again, kill him.”

One of the soldiers drew his sword and held it against Joseph’s throat. The officer turned back to the stall door. The last one on the right side of the stable. He opened it…

There, beneath a black and white spotted goat and a thin layer of hay and manure, was a girl covering a baby’s mouth with her hand. Mary screamed as the officer pulled the back of her robes, trying to yank her away.

Joseph pulled free of the soldier’s grasp, ran at the officer, and jumped on his back. He got an arm around his throat and pulled as hard as he could, knowing that he’d be run through with a sword from behind any second. It didn’t matter. Let them run him through. Until they did, he planned to keep squeezing—keep choking this man until his last breath, in the hopes that Mary might free herself and run.

The officer dropped his sword and grabbed at Joseph’s arm with both hands. He managed to pry one under Joseph’s arm and pull it loose. His breath restored, he found the strength to throw Joseph over his back and into the stall with his wife and baby. Quickly, the officer looked down for the sword he’d dropped…

But it was gone.

He turned and found himself face-to-face with two men he’d never seen before. Two men who were standing on either side of the Antioch Ghost. The same Antioch Ghost he’d captured and dragged into Herod’s Palace from Bethel. The same one who was supposed to have been his ticket to a better life. He also saw the bodies of his men on the stable floor, their throats cut.

“But you’re…you’re supposed to be dead,” said the captain.

But I am,
thought Balthazar.
Don’t you understand? I
am
dead.

Balthazar cut the captain’s throat.

Joseph climbed onto the back of Melchyor’s camel. Gaspar made his animal kneel and helped Mary onto its back, the infant in her arms. Balthazar rode alone, with a sword in each hand.

They could make it if they went now. If they crossed the road and kept going, straight into the desert. But those screams continued to echo through Bethlehem. There were still dozens of soldiers out there, searching from house to house. Slaughtering children who’d barely known the earth. Mothers and fathers who were giving the last of themselves to save them. Now, at this very moment.

That screaming wouldn’t stop. Not until time itself stopped. You couldn’t get sounds like that out of your ears. Not completely. Never completely. They would always be there, faint whispers in that underground dungeon, where all the bad things belonged. Balthazar knew this. Just as he knew that they could make it if they went now. Just as he knew that saving all of them was impossible. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Gaspar could see it on his face. In the way he clenched the reins until his knuckles turned white, staring south into the village. “Balthazar…we can either die trying to save them all, or we can save this one while there is still time.”

Gaspar was right, of course. Balthazar had faced this choice before. The choice between dying a noble death and living to fight another cowardly day. The temptation to die could be overwhelming. The temptation to let the anger wash over you, to baptize you into a new, glorious existence. Burning briefly and brightly. But it was just an illusion. For no matter how many you killed in those final moments, it was never as many as you would have killed over time. That was the trick of it. The longer you lived, the more of them you could eventually kill. It was easy to forget a truth like that with the anger burning a hole in you.

There was still time. He would save this one. He would fight another cowardly day. And he would find a way, someday, to burn their whole world to the ground. Maybe even find a way to get those screams out of his ears. Balthazar swore this to himself and kicked the side of his camel.

They would ride straight into the desert this time. They would push their camels as fast as they would go, and they wouldn’t let up until they reached Qumran. The Essenes would keep them safe for at least a night or—

“You! Stop!”

Balthazar turned back. A pair of horsemen had spotted them from the south, one of average height and build, the other simply gigantic. Both were chasing them, side by side, up the road from Bethlehem with their swords drawn.

“Keep going!” said Balthazar to the others. “Stay with them!”

He turned his camel around and charged at the two horsemen—his left hand on the reins, his right behind his back. He would save this one. Gaspar and Melchyor would keep it safe, and he’d catch up with them in the desert as soon as this was done.

Balthazar rode straight at them, his camel’s nose pointed directly between their horses. He’d ride straight into them if he had to, but he wasn’t going to flinch. The soldiers were less than twenty feet from impact when they realized this and turned their horses to either side to go around him. As they did, Balthazar took his left hand off the reins, reached behind his back, and grabbed the two swords—holding them out to his sides like wings.
Like a man with wings.
Knocking both soldiers off their horses and into the dirt.

He circled back and dismounted, a sword in either hand. The smaller one was still trying to stand up, still trying to shake the impact off. But the bigger one was on his feet and on him in a hurry. With a low grunt, he ran at Balthazar and thrust the point of his sword toward his chest. But Balthazar was able to move out of its path and make him miss, tripping him in the process.

The smaller was up on his feet again, swinging wildly at Balthazar while his partner recovered. But the fall had taken a lot out of him, and Balthazar cut him to shreds, avoiding his armor and slicing deep gashes in his bare arms. When the bigger came at him again, he took a cue from Melchyor—dropping to his knees and hacking away at both of their legs, until the smaller fell onto his back and the bigger retreated out of reach.

“You tell Herod,” said Balthazar to the bigger man, “that the Antioch Ghost is laughing at him.”

The soldier’s already fearful eyes grew even wider.

“You tell him I’m laughing.…You tell him I’ll stand over his grave.”

The soldier considered this, then ran back toward the village, determined to fight another cowardly day. Balthazar watched him go a moment—a giant running on shredded legs—then turned his attention to the soldier squirming below him. The soldier pulling himself along the ground despite the deep gashes in his limbs. He was trying to get away, and yet he knew there was no chance of that happening.