Fort Jezreel, Jezreel Valley, Israel
Twelve years after giving each other a bloody nose, Obadiah and Ahab rode out the gate of the fort. Obadiah turned toward Ahab. “Where’s our squad? Since your father became king, he drills his gaze through to the back of my skull and commands, ‘Keep my son safe.’”
Ahab tipped his head toward the fort. “They’re right behind us, Biah.”
“Invisible bodyguards?” Obadiah scanned the gray slopes of Mount Tabor. In the last nine months, Syrian scouts had killed two farmers and a sentry in those foothills. He reined his mount toward the gate. “I can’t let you escape the fort without guards, my prince.”
A Syrian arrow tickled Ahab’s throat.