by Ted Dekker
“Don’t worry, Maco. In one week’s time you will be holding your newborn son in your arms.”
His man looked sheepish. “She wants me to leave Ba’al’s service,” he said. “I told her I didn’t serve Ba’al, only you.”
“Leave the Throaters and serve how?”
“As a builder, actually. I would serve the army when called upon, of course. But the prospect of having a child has done strange things to my thoughts.”
Jacob suppressed a grin. Maco’s admission took courage, even if Jacob was the only one to hear it. If there was a man he might call brother, it was Maco. They’d served together for three years, often depending on each other like hand and glove.
“Then you must become a builder, my friend. Leave the fighting to men like me who still have reason to impress young maidens with impossible tales of bravery. I didn’t know you were handy with a hammer and saw.”
“My father taught me a few things when I was—”
Jacob snatched his hand up for silence. A horse had rounded the boulders ahead. Risin had returned.
“If you wouldn’t mind . . .”
“Don’t worry, Maco,” Jacob said, kneeing his stallion. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you, sire.”
They rode out to meet the scout halfway.
“Speak.”
Risin reined in his horse, still skittish from the descent over steep terrain. “They sleep in a small gulch to the north of the pass, sire. The woman and an older man.”
“Older?”
“Ancient by the look of his beard. Finding them wasn’t easy, they are well hidden.”
“Any sign of others?”
“None that I found. If there are warriors on this mountain, they are ghosts.”
Jacob studied that dark mountain behind Risin. He still couldn’t shake the thought that all was not what it seemed, but the girl was there, asleep with only an old man and her own blade to protect her.
“The way up?”
“To the north, off the path, through the trees. The footing is a bit treacherous in places, but it offers more cover. From the north we can circle and approach them from behind.”
“The old man—you are certain he slept?”
“Unless he snores while awake, quite sure, yes.”
“Maco, tell the men we ride now. Send fifty to block the pass and bring fifty to follow us to the north. I’m determined to cut off any escape. Remind them that silence is paramount. Assume the old man is as deadly with a knife as the girl.”
“Yes, sire.”
They rode in single file under a round moon, up narrow valleys and then down sharp gorges, winding their way behind Risin, who had an uncanny knack for making a path where there was none.
Slowly the peak grew before them. At such a high elevation, the whole world might be seen in daylight. Their horses were unaccustomed to such tall peaks, but they’d been bred and trained for obedience, and freed of the heavy armor that protected their riders in desert conflict. The Throaters had ditched it five days earlier, knowing that many steep climbs awaited them. The armor could be collected on their return.
Near the top, they veered north, through trees that finally ended at a wide meadow. And beyond that meadow, tall boulders.
Risin stopped the column and Jacob pulled his steed abreast. “How far?”
The scout motioned to the south. “The pass is there, ten minutes along the ridge.” He nodded ahead. “We cross this meadow, then two miles north along the ridge to the cleft where they sleep.”
“By Teeleh’s fangs, how did you find them?”
Risin shrugged. “How does water find the sea? It’s what I do.”
“I was giving you a compliment, Risin, not asking a question. Have you ever actually seen a sea?”
“No, sire.”
“Someday, I want you to find a sea and take me there. Lead on.”
They broke file and crossed the grassy meadow abreast. Jacob considered the mystery of the woman they had come so far to seize. The 49th. A Mystic whose mind had been wiped. He pondered the way she’d spoken to him while hiding under the cliff, then walked past his men in darkness as if able to see what they could not. The way she’d looked at him before throwing her knife, guiding it wide.
There was an innocence in her voice and her eyes that didn’t belong to any warrior so skilled as she.
He understood why Ba’al and his father were so threatened by her—they believed in the prophecy. Perhaps they were right. But the woman he’d encountered didn’t strike him as a warrior intent on subjugating the Horde. Or any human, for that matter. Perhaps he could learn something from her. Perhaps they all could.
Risin pulled up hard. Jacob followed the man’s stare and saw shadows where no shadows belonged despite a bright moon. They emerged in a long line along the towering boulders fifty paces directly ahead.
His pulse surged.
“Elyonites,” Risin breathed.
Twenty, no more, wrapped in black swaths of clothing from head to foot, save for a thin slit across their eyes. To a man they were mounted on black steeds. If they wore armor, it was hidden beneath their dress.
The last of them emerged from the boulders and pulled alongside the others, where they waited, motionless.
Two questions raced through Jacob’s mind, neither involving retreat. Would the sound of battle awaken the woman and give her the time she needed to slip away? What if these warriors had already found her?
“When we engage, you and I will break north with five more. Take us to her quickly! Maco, stay by me.”
“The others?” Risin asked.
“The others slaughter these hooded mongrels and wait for our return.”
The orders took only seconds to convey. Jacob slowly withdrew his broad blade and palmed a throwing knife.
“Head down, they likely have bows. Don’t you worry, boy, you will see your son yet.”
Jacob urged his horse to a trot abreast all fifty, straight toward the enemy, who made no effort to move. It occurred to him that they might slip back into the boulders and engage his men piecemeal.
“Breakneck, Maco!” He slapped his mount and plunged toward the waiting line of warriors.
Only when his men were midfield did the line move. Not toward them, but to either side, ten per group spaced out in perfect order as if performing on a stage. They took their mounts to a full gallop, but it was the finesse with which they moved, so evenly in stride, that tugged at Jacob’s gut.
The split forced his own men to divide. But the Elyonite warriors showed no intention of engaging. Both lines sped in opposite directions, circling behind.
The first arrows came then, drawn and fired without warning at a full gallop. Each found an exposed neck or head in a stunning display of precision.
“The girl, Risin!” he snapped. “Take me to her!”
Risin veered to the north, followed quickly by Maco and Jacob on his heels with four others, bent low.
Cries filled the meadow, sending alarm down his neck. Rumors of the Elyonite warriors were whispered around campfires, but so were stories of Shataiki and ghosts.
Enraged, Jacob swatted at an arrow streaking for his side. And another, shot from the line of Elyonites circling to his left. A third arrow slammed into the saddle at his back but didn’t have the weight to break through.
A glance over his shoulder turned his alarm to dread. At least half of his men were down.
One of the men with him cried out and grabbed at his neck. The warrior toppled off his mount and landed hard.
“Backside!” Jacob cried. “Cut them off! Forward, Risin! Like the wind!”
Ten of the warriors still mounted behind him moved to cut off the line of Elyonites now firing from their flank and rear. The maneuver, however ill-fated for those who obeyed, gave him the cover he needed to reach the boulders with Risin and Maco.
They rounded the towering rock formations at a full gallop, then followed Risin up a narrow gorg
e, leaving the sounds of dying men behind.
“They were waiting for us!” Maco said. “I’ve never seen warriors fire with such aim.”
“Not now!”
They had to reach the girl and return to the others before the warriors tracked them. Then get back down the mountain without engaging the enemy. The terrain here was rough, and the path was narrow and would force any pursuit into single file. With luck, his men would buy him the lead he needed.
Risin had said two miles. Under threat of death, the stallions made the treacherous ride in under ten minutes, plunging down ravines and scrambling up steep inclines.
They made no attempt at stealth—there was no time for that now.
“This way.” Risin directed his snorting mount to the right of a massive rock, dropped to the ground, and waved Jacob through a narrow gap between two boulders.
Nestled among a grouping of eight rocks lay bare ground, perhaps twenty strides from side to side. At the center of the clearing lay a single form, sleeping on one side. No horses.
“The elder’s gone,” Risin whispered.
Maco appeared, panting, sword drawn. “We have to hurry.”
They did, but the sight of the girl now sleeping so soundly tugged at him. If the Elyonites knew she was here, they would have seized or killed her already. There was no sound of pursuit to their rear.
He glanced up at the boulders. “Maco, keep an eye out. The old man may still be near.”
Jacob walked up to the form. Ashes and half-burned sticks from a small fire long dead lay a few feet from her. Her long dark hair was strewn across her face, hiding it from view. A round tattoo on her shoulder glowed white in the moonlight. She’d kicked off the blanket meant to keep her warm, and her tunic was hiked up to expose a bare thigh. She was hugging herself and shivering, yet sleeping still.
Did all Albinos sleep so soundly?
“Sire . . .”
He shut down Risin’s whisper with a raised hand. Like all Horde, Jacob found her scent to be off-putting and her smooth skin ugly enough, but not repulsive the way others spoke of such things. If they managed to escape this mountain in one piece, he would treat her with respect and learn more of her ways.
Jacob reached for the rope that Risin held out to him and carefully slipped one end under her head. He was about to close the loop around her neck when she whimpered and flinched in her sleep.
A small hole suddenly appeared on her bare thigh, an injury inflicted with an invisible weapon that jerked her leg. The familiar muted crunch of bone breaking accompanied a soft grunt from her. He jumped back, stunned.
Had he just seen this? Blood was now trickling from the wound and running down her thigh. But none of this awakened her.
“Teeleh help us!” Risin cried. “She’s a witch!”
As if in answer to his cry, an arrow slammed into the crown of Risin’s head. Jacob heard a grunt and spun. Maco stood ten paces away, eyes wide, a knife lodged in his temple.
Jacob lifted his sight to the boulders and saw them. Five Elyonite warriors wrapped in black, gazing down, bows drawn. One step and he would be dead. He took a calming breath and slowly straightened, hands open and palms out.
“By Elyon, they stink worse dead than alive,” one of them muttered.
“This one’s mine.” A second warrior stepped off the tall boulder, dropped gracefully through the air, and landed on the ground like a cat. He flipped a knife in his hand and stared at Jacob, who stood still, prepared for death. He’d failed Ba’al’s mission. His mother would mourn him. This thought more than any other bothered him.
He could try to defend himself, but to what end? Any one of those on the rocks could end his life with an arrow. Better to accept death in peace than make a futile attack that would only betray a baser rage.
He couldn’t see the man’s face because it was wrapped in black cloth, but his green eyes glinted with resolve. The man had taken one step toward him when one of the others spoke.
“Hold on, what’s this?”
Jacob glanced at the man who’d stopped his comrade.
“Her shoulder. She’s a Mystic!”
The warrior on the ground looked down at the tattoo on her arm. For a long moment, no one spoke. They’d just stumbled on a great prize, Jacob realized. One they either revered or despised, but one of value nonetheless.
“She’s wounded,” the warrior across from Jacob said.
“I don’t care if she’s half dead,” the one above snapped. “Put that knife through her temple now.”
“No,” Jacob said. “You can’t.”
They looked at him, above and below, taken aback by the tone of his voice.
“Is that so? I suppose we can’t kill the infidels at the pass either? And yet we have. You’re the last. Pray tell me, beast, why we should spare a heretic, the only thing in this world worse than the Horde?”
“Because your leaders will demand to question the prophesied one.”
The one above spoke. “And what would an animal know about a prophesied one? There is no such thing. These are lies spun by those who undermine Elyon’s holy ways.”
“I am Jacob, son of Qurong. And the girl you wish to kill is the 49th Mystic.”
“Qurong’s son . . .” His voice was filled with doubt.
“Yes.”
“Then all the more reason you will die.”
“I’m only telling you so you don’t give your commanders reason to take your heads.”
“If it’s true,” the one above said, “they’ll want to torture them for information. There will be gold for these.”
The warrior on the ground considered his companion’s opinion, then walked up to the woman and shoved the heel of his boot into her wound. She groaned but did not wake.
The man spat to one side. “Filthy heretic. She’s already half dead.”
“No,” Jacob said. “She’s only sleeping.”
“I say we kill them both now. They stink of trouble.”
“Hold!”
Jacob glanced up and saw that a sixth warrior had appeared, this one with a golden armband that differentiated him from the others.
The warrior nearby dipped his head in respect. “Sire.”
The leader dropped to the ground with the grace of a bird of prey. He pulled down the black cloth that covered his face, exposing a jaw chiseled from stone and deep eyes that knew no fear.
He glanced at the 49th, then leveled his gaze at Jacob. “I am Aaron, son of Mosseum, commander of the Elyonite elite. You are Jacob, son of Qurong, you say?”
“I am.”
“And you claim this woman is the 49th Mystic?”
“Can you think of any other reason the son of Qurong would find himself so far from his own women? She is no ordinary Albino, I can assure you.”
The son of Mosseum studied him for a long moment. He struck Jacob as a man given to few words, confident in his authority and power. From what Jacob had seen on this mountain tonight, the Elyonites more than lived up to the rumors of their fighting prowess. Not that Jacob feared the man—he feared none. Perhaps they would one day test each other on neutral ground. Then he would know what the man was really made of.
Aaron dipped his head. “Consider this woman to have extended your life, son of Qurong. Though I think you will regret it.”
He spoke to his men without removing his eyes from Jacob.
“Bind them.”
21
I WAS DREAMING, and in that dream, Barth beat my father and shot me. The bullet broke my thigh bone. They dragged me to a cellar, dumped me in a cell, and left me in that dank darkness to contend with throbbing pain. The pain kept me awake for a long time before sleep mercifully put me out of my misery.
That was my dream, and it slowly faded as I returned to consciousness in the real world. The one in which Talya and I had climbed to the pass of the Great Divide, found a small enclave among boulders, and cooked some old corn over a small fire before climbing under blankets to sleep.
Talya had kissed my hand before retiring. “No matter what happens tomorrow,” he said, “remember that every encounter is an opportunity for salvation from the storm. What you are tempted to call a problem is only an instrument for awakening so that you can see what is true, as seen Inchristi. As such, it is your gift. Promise me you will remember this.”
I was still floating from my experience on the cliff. There I had seen why Yeshua slept through the storm on the sea and asked those with him why they were afraid. There was no reason to be. I had just seen what he had seen, so I wasn’t concerned about any coming problems.
“I promise,” I said. I’d fallen asleep in the safe place with a smile on my face.
The rocking beneath me pulled me quickly from sleep, and I opened my eyes. Light. Bright light. We were moving!
I jerked up. “Talya?”
Pain shot up my leg and I cried out, grasping at my thigh. Someone had tied a strip of cloth around the wound. The cloth was red with blood.
“Easy . . . Easy, don’t move.”
A hand rested on my shoulder and I turned, expecting to see Talya. Instead I saw what first appeared to be a monster of sorts, with flaking gray skin and long matted dreadlocks. Horde.
I recoiled, confused and terrified. The wound on my thigh . . . Barth had shot me in my dreams.
“Where’s Talya?”
“You’re badly wounded. Please try not to move. I did my best to clean and wrap it, but my experience doesn’t extend beyond battle dressing. With any luck, these barbarians will have physicians to ease the pain and set your leg. Until then, moving will only cause your bones to grind. Quite painful.”
I twisted, searching for Talya. We were in a small horse-drawn cage with filthy straw on the floor. A bald Albino sat in the corner, back to me. We were passing a small wooden house with a green lawn. Ditches lined either side of the dirt road.
Twelve or fourteen warriors dressed from head to foot in black rode tall stallions in two columns, one on each side of us.
