(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012) Read online

  SON OF THE MORNING

  WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

  [Episode Three]

  CHRIS STEWART

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Original Edition © The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Deseret Book Company) Condensed Edition © 2012 The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Mercury Radio Arts, Inc. under license from Deseret Book Company)

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  ISBN: 978-0-9854619-2-8 (eBook)

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned[.]

  W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  ONE

  Dhahran Royal Palace, Dhahran, Saudi Arabia

  Crown Prince Abdullah al-Rahman leaned over his father’s deathbed. A small mirror had been placed on the gold overleaf nightstand, and, uncomfortable with touching a moribund, he took the mirror and placed it near his father’s mouth. It fogged, but barely, and he sat it back in place. Standing upright, he looked around the enormous bedroom, with all of its leather, jewel-studded ornaments, fine art, and gold. To his right the kafan, the loin cloth, tunic and a new cotton shroud, had been neatly folded and placed at the foot of the bed, waiting to cover the king’s body once he was dead. A beautiful mahogany box had been placed on the shroud, and Al-Rahman could smell the fragrance and incense that were waiting inside. The funeral, or janazah, would take place later in the day before the sun had gone down. After being washed, his father’s body would be wrapped in the kafan, his face turned toward Mecca, and the final prayers said.

  Al-Rahman thought it ironic, and he couldn’t help but smile, a dreadful twist of his lips at the corners of his mouth. Martyrs were to be buried as they had died: in their clothes, their bodies bloody and unwashed, their faces covered with the dirt of their battle, their open wounds bearing testimony to their martyrdom, and, if they had been so lucky as to die while defending the faith, their weapons placed in their hands.

  Such were the burial rituals for a hero and a martyr.

  The king would not be given such an honor when he was dead.

  The new crown prince glanced again at the box of incense and the washcloths that had been placed near the bed, knowing that his father’s body would be cleansed when he was finally dead, then wrapped in the three white pieces of cloth and placed in the grave.

  There would be no martyr’s honor for his father, no bloody hands or dirty clothes, no open wounds or heavy weapons placed in his cold hands. There would be no glory or salvation in his death.

  But the truth was, his father would die a martyr, though no one would ever know. His father’s wounds would never testify of his martyrdom, for they were internal and unseen, like the blackness and corruption that had cankered his soul.

  That was what happened when one died for the wrong cause.

  The crown prince scoffed, an angry huff of his breath. Democracy and equality. What had gone through his father’s mind? Were these the tools Allah had intended for his kings? Were these the concepts Mohammad had taught? No. Not one. And surely his father knew that. Which made him a heretic. No, he was much worse than that, for a heretic could sin in ignorance, a heretic could be foolish or blind. His father had not been deceived; he had knowingly chosen his path. He might have been a traitor, but he was no fool.

  Al-Rahman thought back on what the old man, his true mentor, had told him the first time they had met on the beach in southern France. It had been a long time before, but it seemed like yesterday he felt the heat of the afternoon sun. He could still smell the seaweed and hear the soft lap of the sea. And he could hear the words of the old man as if he were still standing there: “You might as well say the sun comes up in the west as to call your father a fool. The king is a visionary. And the most dangerous kind.”

  The old man had been right. His father had been a visionary, and yes, the most dangerous kind. He had poisoned his family with his visions of democracy, which left Prince al-Rahman no choice.

  So Al-Rahman had killed him. But there was no sin in that. Not after what his father and his brother had set out to do. Al-Rahman thought of the poison surging through his father’s veins, turning his organs black. As he stared into his father’s face, watching him die, he felt neither a twinge of uncertainty nor a hint of doubt or remorse. He felt no sadness or guilt.

  But then, Al-Rahman had never felt a moment of guilt in his life.

  He stared at his father, watching his lips turn from blue to gray. “What did it get you, my father?” Al-Rahman mumbled in a low voice. “What did your riches buy you? Your power? Your fame? In the end it brought you nothing; it could not even protect you. It brought you nothing but shame. But I will not squander it, my father. I will not squander our ancestors’ great power or their wealth. I will use it; I will build it; I will see my will done. I will pick up the battle of our fathers and build upon the legacy of the last thousand years.”

  The king of Saudi Arabia took a deep breath and struggled to move, his hand lifting half an inch off the bed.

  Al-Rahman’s smile turned into a deep frown, and he lowered his head. He knew that a dying man’s hearing was the last sense to go, so he leaned toward his father and whispered. “Can you hear me, Father?” he asked him. “I know that you can.”

  The old king struggled, lifting his hand again. The prince smiled at the motion and placed his mouth right up to the old man’s ear, feeling the heat of his father’s skin on his lips. As he spoke his voice changed, as if another man were there. “It has started, my father,” he whispered in a soft, evil hiss. “There is no turning back. You might as well lift your hand to stop the sunrise as to bring an end to this plan. Like your own death, it is inevitable. The endgame is set, and there’s nothing you could do now, even were you to live. The age of the West is fading, giving way to a dark power again. A new day is dawning, a day of deep secrets and powerful men, an age of dark miracles, dreadful rumors, and a red, sinking moon, a day of a bright flash on the horizon that does not come from the sun. It will be an age of power and oppression far greater than has ever fallen on the earth. Even as I whisper to you, Father, even as my breath touches your ear, the final battle has begun. The sun is setting on the frail world you have known. It is passing, and with its passing, the greater kingdom shall come.

  “You have lost this war, Father. You have failed in your plan. And your dreams are fading along with your breath. But I will pick up the blade for you, Father, and I will fight for the right cause. I will pick up the battle that you were too weak to fight, and I will build up the kingdom that you sought to destroy.

  “So go now, my father. Go to my brother. Go to your wife and your ch
ildren as well. Go to those who are waiting, be they in paradise or hell. Go and tell them you have failed, but I will not fail them too.”

  The crown prince, soon to be king, paused and lifted his head. He was finished. It was all he had to say. So he straightened himself and stared at his father’s gray face, then heard a soft movement behind him and turned to see the mullah standing there. “Say your best janazah for him,” Al-Rahman commanded the religious leader, his voice normal now. “My father has much to be forgiven for, and he will need your most compelling prayers.”

  Falcon 53, Over Northern Iraq

  Army Special Forces Captain Samuel Brighton sat on the helicopter floor near the door, his feet pulled up, and elbows on his knees, his chin resting wearily on his folded arms. It was dark but the moon was out, providing plenty of light once his eyes had adjusted to the night. He watched the mountains of Iran recede behind him, then the hills and lowlands, then the beach, then the warm waters of the Persian Gulf. Hitting the water, the helicopters turned north, flying toward the Iraqi swamps that poured into the Persian Gulf from the Tigress and Euphrates Rivers.

  Feet dry over Iraq, the helicopters set down for the second time at another unknown forward operating base to refuel, then took off again. By then, it was light. They had flown through the night.

  Sam was surrounded by his men, but most of them were asleep now, their heads and shoulders slumped in exhaustion. He turned to look out the open cargo door of the helicopter, feeling the cool air raise the hairs on his neck. The visors over the pilot’s faces reflected the green and yellow lights of their cockpit displays. Behind him and to his right, three other helicopters followed their leader, their navigation lights dimmed. The air was clear, a cold front having moved through and blown the dust from the sky. Sam watched the landscape speed below him. The desert was barren, with clumps of Joshua trees and dry grass clinging desperately to the banks of the dry wadi walls, the same ancient rivers that had run through Iraq since the days of Babylon. The Wadi at Tubal passed directly below, erratic trenches that had been scratched into the earth as if by enormous fingernails, and he could see occasional pools of shallow water reflecting the slanted rays from the rising sun along the bends and narrow turns in the sandy streambed. The landscape continued to pass: rock, sand, a few trees here and there.

  Staring at the desolation, he wondered again. This place was the cradle of civilization. This was where it had all begun. Four thousand years had come and gone, and this was the place men had chosen to fight and die for again and again. This was the place that had produced so much bloodshed and so many wars.

  “Let them have it,” he muttered to himself. “There is nothing here worth fighting for. Certainly nothing worth dying for.” But even as he grumbled, he felt a quick twinge of guilt. The people here were as desperate as the desert as they clung to life, hoping for rain, hoping for time, hoping the next day would be a little better than the day that had passed.

  He hated it here. It was so desperate and lonely. It caused a blackness in his heart.

  But the people were trying—at least some of them were. And he was doing some good—at least he hoped that he was.

  The lead helicopter turned thirty degrees, making the final turn to Camp Freedom, the base camp that would be his home for the next several days, until they got their next set of orders, almost certainly back to Afghanistan. As the helicopter leveled out, Sam was facing the eastern horizon and he gazed through the emptiness, looking across the barren terrain.

  It was out there, far away, the little village in the mountains, south and east now, a few degrees off his right. Across the Sara al Hijarah and the northern tip of the Persian Gulf. All the massacred children, the fires, the destroyed houses and the burned tree.

  All of it was out there.

  And Azadeh was out there, too.

  He thought of her face, dirty and streaked with tears. He thought of her eyes and her trembling shoulders. He thought of her hands, clasped so tightly at her chest. She was young. So fragile. So beautiful.

  But that wasn’t the reason he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  “I knew you,” he whispered to himself. “I knew you . . . somewhere. I know that I did.” He rubbed his hand across his face, keeping his eyes looking east.

  It was crazy, and he knew it. It was impossible. She was just another girl, another victim, another casualty that would be forgotten when the next battle began.

  But there was something about her . . . .

  So Sam stared across the nearly empty desert, looking toward the mountains of Iran, knowing that she was out there and knowing just as surely that he would never see her again.

  Agha Jari Deh Valley, Eastern Iran

  Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi sat on the cracked stone and cement steps of her father’s house and looked west. The smell of smoke still drifted in the air. Behind her, she heard one of the villagers, a stranger, rummaging through what remained of their kitchen, scavenging for any pots and pans that may have been left behind. Azadeh knew the thin woman wouldn’t find anything worth keeping; too many others had already picked their way through what remained of her father’s house.

  Some of the scavengers had been people she knew, even a few family friends, but most had been people from the other side of the village whom she did not know well. Each had done the same thing: approach her devastated house and pass her on the steps, ignoring her altogether, as if she weren’t there, then rummage through her belongings and haul away a few possessions without so much as a word.

  There was a small crash as the stranger in the kitchen picked up a piece of pottery and dropped it, the sound of broken clay scattering across the wooden floor. Azadeh heard another crash and more broken clay, but she didn’t react, her face remaining passionless and calm. She leaned back against the cold brick, listening to the final looting that was taking place in her house. It was nearly all gone, everything they had owned, every piece of furniture, every item of food, the kitchen table and utensils, the coal-fired heater, small television, blankets, mattresses, her clothes, all of it had been taken.

  Her father was gone. All of her family. She had nothing. She was nothing.

  Looking west, she had a clear view to the sea, the afternoon sun high, the terrain falling gently before her, the gradual slope of the valley dropping toward the salty waters of the Persian Gulf. Behind the village, the mountains rose, topped with gray granite and white snow. The trees were green in the valley, and the orchards along the river were close to bearing fruit. The sky was clear, and all the remaining villagers were out and working: preparing for the burials, tending the young bodies, cleaning up the debris, patching the bullet holes in the walls, sweeping up broken glass. Some had even started the work of rebuilding or repairing the damage done to their homes.

  Hundreds of people worked around her.

  But Azadeh sat alone.

  Somewhere in the Desert of Western Iraq

  He stood alone as the sun rose, clinging to the last of the dark night. He was a tall figure, his shoulders broad, and his arms powerful. He closed his eyes as he waited, facing the rising sun, its slanting rays creating a shadow underneath his heavy brow.

  He stood unmoving, a great form of darkness, a shimmering statue against the sun.

  He was the Son of the Morning, the Prince of this World. And he was incredibly powerful.

  Balaam and the others waited behind him. From where they stood, with his cloak and hood hiding his pale skin and sick eyes, Lucifer still looked majestic, perhaps even beautiful. But Balaam had seen him up close, and he knew it wasn’t true. Lucifer could be handsome, yes; he could show a face of beauty and great splendor when he was forced to. Balaam cursed, almost laughing, knowing that when Lucifer showed himself to mortals he could even still force a smile. But like a reflection on shallow water, there was no substance to his beauty, no heart and no soul. Up close, Lucifer’s skin had grown pale, dead and yellow and cold. And it had turned soft and supple, as if it might slough off,
like a costume of skin that was no longer attached to his soul. Even his eyes shimmered yellow, like those of a sick animal.

  Lucifer was miserable. Balaam knew that. And his fellow demons knew it, too.

  Yes, Lucifer could work miracles to deceive or appear as an angel of light; he could cite Scripture to make the mortals think they were on the right course while he soothed and manipulated and cursed and controlled. He could stir secret combinations and murder and sinister works in the dark.

  But he could never be happy. It was impossible. He was a dismal wretch, dark and ugly and perfectly miserable. And he was condemned to his misery for the rest of all time, condemned to a body of spirit, incomplete and away from the Light.

  He is the Prince of Darkness, the Accuser, standing to watch a rising sun whose warmth he would never feel. The day would dawn bright and sunny, but he would remain in the dark, his day as cold and dismal as the death of a child.

  Wallowing in the cold pain, Balaam rolled his head, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. At least Roth was not around to irritate him anymore, for Lucifer had banished the slothful angel for not killing the girl. Roth should have convinced one of the soldiers to tie her to the tree and burn her beside her father. But the simple truth was—and this he hated to admit—despite their best efforts, there were times when even the most evil mortals didn’t do what they were commanded, when even the darkest soldiers were reluctant to kill the young and beautiful. Balaam didn’t understand it, for his natural instinct was just the opposite. The more beautiful they were, the more he hated them. The stronger they were, the more he wanted them dead.

  Standing on the edge of the desert, Lucifer glanced over his shoulder, then cursed and growled, an unnatural sound in his throat. Another day had passed. Another night was gone. The eastern sky was bright now. Another day had come.

  Another day closer to the end!

  Time was growing short now! And there was still so much to do!

  He snarled again, half from rage, half from fear. A sudden panic set in.