Part 1: A Man of God

Prologue

Elijah found himself once again in the tomb of the Man of God, with no memory of how he had come there. He stumbled in the dark, feeling his way along the curving stone. He had to find the Man of God. Then he heard a friendly voice whisper his name. He turned, and Aliah stood in front of him, her face pleading. Relief washed over him.

“Wake up,” she whispered, a sliver of dread in her voice. Elijah could say nothing.

“They are coming,” she whispered, this time with urgency.

Elijah tried to make any sound at all, but failed.

Now Aliah was screaming, “RUN!”

Elijah’s eyes jerked open, his pulse hammering in his ears, and it took him a moment to understand that the shouting outside was real.

He groped for his discarded clothing in the darkness, his limbs stiff and slow. Three years of hiding had softened him, and the old instincts felt buried under layers of exhaustion. Cursing his carelessness, he crawled across the floor, sweeping his hands through the dust until they found the familiar weight of his fur cloak. He offered a silent prayer of thanks. He crept to the window and opened the shutter just enough to peer into the night.

Jezebel’s men had Ishmael on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. His wife, Rachel, stood before him, their young son clinging to her knees and screaming with fear and panic.

The captain of the soldiers pressed the tip of his dagger against Ishmael’s throat. A small trickle of blood began to flow down the dusty blade.

He stared at the woman and demanded:

“Tell me where the prophet is, or I will kill him.”

Ishmael shook his head. “No, Rachel. Tell him nothing.”

The soldier looked up at Rachel with the same cold glare. “Tell me now.”

Elijah clenched his teeth and thought of calling down God’s wrath, but he knew that it would also take the family that had sheltered him, and he could not risk causing their death. “Please forgive me,” he said to no one.

The captain’s sudden stare caught Elijah off guard. The captain seemed to be looking in his direction, so he ducked hurriedly.

Ishmael looked up at his captor. Fear disappeared from his expression, and a serene calm replaced it.

“Rachel, I do not matter. The Prophet must live.”

“Jezebel thinks otherwise,” said the soldier as he removed the knife from Ishmael’s throat. “Take the boy!”

The soldiers ripped the screaming boy from his mother’s knees and brought him to the captain.

Looking up at Rachel, he placed the dagger against her son’s throat and smiled. “Does he matter?”

“You dogs of Jezebel!” Ishmael screamed, his voice crumbling. “Is this the power your god grants you? Rachel, I beg you! Say nothing. It is better for our son to meet the Lord now than to live under Baal’s yoke.”

The captain ignored his cries and fixed his gaze on Rachel. “I will not ask again.”

Rachel looked defeated. She lowered her head and stared at the ground so she would not have to see the disappointment on her husband’s face. Slowly, she began to raise her arm and point toward the upper room.

“Release the boy,” the captain said.

The boy ran into his mother’s arms, and she sobbed with relief as she hugged him.

“Kill the father.”

Before Rachel could scream, one of the soldiers brought the full force of his blade against the back of Ishmael’s neck, neatly severing his head from his body.

Elijah bit down reflexively on his fist to keep from screaming in anger. Then instinct kicked in, and he sprang up naked from the window and ran toward the door, carrying only his cloak. He heard heavy footsteps coming toward him, so he turned and felt his way along the cold stone wall in the opposite direction. The brief flicker of light behind him told him they were close, so he picked up his pace and stopped feeling his way along the wall. He ran headfirst into a wooden door, the impact knocking him flat. Stunned, with his eyes watering from the salt of his own blood, he threw his shoulder against the wood. It splintered but held. He slammed into it again, desperation giving him strength, and burst through into a small storeroom. A sliver of moonlight cut through a high, shuttered window. He climbed onto a stack of crates, wrenched the shutters open, and hauled himself onto the outer ledge just as soldiers with lanterns flooded the room he had fled.

“No more time,” he whispered to himself as he jumped naked into the darkness.