Red

by Ted Dekker

  “Don’t think that you won’t be called on to do your part here,” Mikil said. “When it’s finished, we’ll go after the Horde and I’ll be the first by your side.”

  She stood next to Jamous. They’d announced their plans for marriage at the celebration last evening. To their right, William scanned the crowd.

  Rachelle put her hand on Thomas’s arm. She alone understood his dilemma here.

  “Even if there is a fight, I won’t kill him, Mikil,” he said. “Banishment, but not death.”

  “Fine. Banishment is better than giving him the freedom to poison the minds of our children,” she said.

  He took a calming breath. “I have to go after the Books of Histories again.”

  “And this time I will enter the tent,” Mikil said. “The rest of this Gathering I can do without. We deal with Justin and then we leave to find your books. And Jamous will come with us.”

  Jamous kissed her on the lips. “As long as I am with you, I could cross the desert.”

  “Always,” she said.

  “Always,” he repeated, and they kissed again.

  The crowd suddenly hushed.

  “They’re coming.”

  Thomas walked to the railing and looked down on the amphitheater. Ciphus was walking down the long slope in his long white ceremonial robe. Behind him, the other six members of the Council. They approached a large platform in the middle of the field. Seven large torches burned in a semicircle around eight tall wooden stools. A stand held a bowl of water between them.

  They walked in silence to seven of the stools. The eighth remained empty. If Justin won the inquiry, he would be allowed to sit with the Council in a show of their acceptance of him. Since the Council had cast the inquiry, they were not obligated to accept his doctrine, but in time, even it might be incorporated in the Great Romance.

  The members climbed onto their stools and faced a similar, smaller platform with a single stool twenty yards from their own.

  “Where is Justin?” Mikil whispered.

  Ciphus lifted a hand for silence, though no gesture was needed—no one was moving, much less speaking. If Thomas were to cough, the whole arena would likely hear him.

  “The Council will issue its challenge of the philosophies of Justin of Southern in this the tenth annual Gathering of all Forest People,” Ciphus cried. His voice rang loud and clear.

  “Justin of Southern, we call you forth.”

  The Council turned back toward the slope down which they had walked. At the crest of the slope, seven large trees marked the only entrance to the amphitheater.

  No one appeared.

  “He’s going to default,” Mikil said. “He knows that he’s wrong and he’s—”

  “Who is that?” William asked.

  A villager was walking from one of the lower seats. Instead of wearing the more popular short tunic, he was dressed in a longer, hooded beige one. And he wore the boots of a soldier.

  “That’s him,” Jamous said.

  The Council still hadn’t seen him. The man walked to the lone stool, seated himself, and pulled back his hood.

  “Justin of Southern accepts your challenge,” he said loudly.

  The Council spun as one. Murmurs ran through the amphitheater. A few chuckles.

  “He’s daring; I’ll give him that,” Mikil said.

  Thomas could practically see the steam coming from Ciphus’s ears.

  The elder held up his hand for silence, and this time it was required. He walked to the bowl, dipped his hands into the water, and dabbed them dry on a small towel. Behind him the other members took their seats.

  Ciphus paced the leading edge of the platform and pulled at his beard. “It is precisely this kind of trickery that I fear has deceived you, my friend,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard.

  “I have no desire to confuse the important questions you will ask,” Justin said. “It is what we say today, not how we look, that will win or lose the hearts of the people.”

  Ciphus hesitated, then addressed the people. “Then hear what I have to say. The man we see seated before us today is a mighty warrior who has favored the forests with many victories in his time. He is the kind of man who loves children and who marches like a true hero and accepts praise with graciousness. Each of these we all know. For each of these I owe a debt of gratitude to Justin of Southern.” He dipped his head at Justin. “Thank you.”

  Justin returned the bow.

  Ciphus was no fool, Thomas thought.

  “Nevertheless, it is said that this man has also spread the poison of blasphemy against Elyon throughout the Southern Forest in these past two years. Our task today is only to determine if this is true. We judge not the man, but his doctrine. And as with any challenge, you, the people, will be the judge of the matter when we have concluded our arguments. So then, judge well.”

  On Thomas’s left, murmuring broke out, voices of dissent already. These must be those of the Southern Forest, Justin’s strongest supporters. Where were the two men who had entered the Valley of Tuhan with Justin? Ronin and Arvyl, if Jamous had told him correctly. Their voices were in the crowd, surely, but not on the floor as Thomas might have expected. On the other hand, it was like Justin to fight his own battles and defend his own philosophies. He’d probably forbidden them from interfering.

  “Silence!”

  They hushed again.

  “It won’t take long. A very simple matter in fact. I think that for this inquiry we could have the children vote and end up with a clear, just verdict. The matter is this.”

  Ciphus turned to Justin.

  “Is it or is it not true that the Horde is truly the enemy of Elyon?”

  “It is true,” Justin said.

  “Correct, we all know this. So then, is it or is it not true that to conspire with the enemy of Elyon is to conspire against Elyon himself?”

  “It is true.”

  “Yes, of course. We all know this as well. So then, is it or is it not true that you advocate creating a bond with the Horde by negotiating peace?”

  “It is true.”

  A gasp flushed through the arena. Shocked mutterings rose from the left and admonishments to let them finish from the right. Ciphus again silenced the crowd with his hand. He measured Justin carefully, undoubtedly thinking that he was plotting some of his trickery.

  “You do realize that to conspire with the Horde has always been treasonous to us? We don’t compromise with the enemy of Elyon, according to the word of Elyon himself. We subscribe to the boy’s prophecy, that Elyon will provide a way to rid the world of this scourge that’s upon us. Yet you seem to want to make peace with it. Isn’t this blasphemous?”

  “Blasphemous, yes,” Justin said.

  The man had no sense, Thomas thought. With those words he’d conscripted himself to banishment.

  “The question is,” Justin continued, “blasphemous against what? Against your Great Romance, or against Elyon himself?”

  Ciphus was shocked by this assertion. “And you think there is a difference?”

  “There is a great difference. Not in spirit, but in form. To make peace with the Horde may defile your Great Romance, but it does not blaspheme Elyon. Elyon would make peace with every man, woman, and child on this world, even though his enemies are found everywhere, even here in this very place.”

  Silence. The people seemed too stunned to speak. He’d cut his own throat, Thomas thought. What he said had a freshness to it, perhaps an idea that he might entertain if he were a theologian. But Justin had decried all that was sacred except Elyon himself. By questioning the Great Romance, he might as well have included Elyon as well.

  “You say that we are Elyon’s enemy?” There was a tremble in Ciphus’s voice.

  “Do you love your lake and your trees and your flowers, or do you love Elyon? Would you die for these, or would you die for Elyon? You are no different than the Horde. If you would die for Elyon, perhaps you should die for the Horde. They are his, after all.”<
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  “You would have us die for the Horde?” Ciphus cried, red faced. “Die for the enemy of Elyon, whom we have sworn to destroy!”

  “If need be, yes.”

  “You speak treason against Elyon!” Ciphus pointed a trembling finger at Justin. “You are a son of the Shataiki!”

  Order abandoned the amphitheater with that one word: Shataiki. Cries of outrage ripped through the air, met head-on with cries of objection that Ciphus could say such a thing against this prophet. This Justin of Southern. If they would only let the man explain himself, they would understand, they cried.

  Any ambivalence Thomas had felt toward this hearing left him. How could any man who’d served under him dare suggest they die for the Horde? Die in battle defending Elyon’s lakes, yes. Die protecting the forest and their children from the Horde, yes. Die upholding the Great Romance in the face of an enemy who’d sworn to wipe Elyon’s name from the face of the earth, yes.

  But die for the Horde? Broker peace so that they might be free to work their deceit?

  Never!

  “How can he say that?” Rachelle asked beside him. “Did he just suggest we lie down and die for the Horde?”

  “What did I tell you?” Mikil said. “We should have killed him yesterday when we had the chance.”

  “If we’d killed him yesterday, we’d be dead today,” Thomas said.

  “Better dead than indebted to this traitor.”

  The arena was a mess of riotous noise. Ciphus made no attempt to stop them. He walked to the bowl of water and dipped his hands in once again. He was done, Thomas realized.

  The elder conferred with the other Council members one by one.

  Justin sat calmly. He made no attempt to explain himself. He seemed satisfied despite having put up no real defense at all. Maybe he wanted a fight.

  Ciphus finally raised both hands and, after a few moments, quieted the crowd enough for him to be heard.

  “I have made my challenge to this heresy, and now you will decide this man’s fate. Should we embrace his teaching or send him away from us, never to return? Or should we put his fate in Elyon’s hands through a fight to the death? Search your hearts and let your decision be heard.”

  Thomas prayed the vote would be clear. Despite his aversion to what Justin had said, he wanted no part in a fight. Not that he feared Justin’s sword, but the thought of being dragged down in support of the Council didn’t sit well with him either.

  On the other hand, there would be a kind of justice in asserting himself over his former lieutenant in one final match before sending him to live with the Horde. Either way, Ciphus would not get his death.

  “It’s over,” he said quietly.

  “Then you weren’t in the valley yesterday,” Rachelle said.

  Ciphus lowered his right hand. “If you say this man speaks blasphemy, let your voice be heard!”

  A thunderous roar shook the gazebo. Enough. Surely enough.

  Ciphus let the cry run on until he was satisfied, then silenced them.

  “And if you say we should accept this man’s teaching and make peace with the Horde, then let your voice be heard.”

  The Southern Forest dwellers had strong lungs, because the cry was loud. And it swelled with as much thunder as the first cry. Or was it less? The distinction was not enough for Ciphus to call it.

  Thomas’s heart rose into his throat. No one outside this gazebo knew that he would defend the Council in a fight. And there would be a fight. No matter how deaf Ciphus wanted to be at this moment, he could not call this a clear decision. The rules were plain—there could be no doubt.

  Ciphus lowered both hands and the people quieted. They all knew what was coming. For a long time the elder just stood still, perhaps taken aback that the crowd was so divided.

  “Then we will place the fate of this man in Elyon’s hands,” he said loudly. “I call to the floor our defender, Thomas of Hunter.”

  The crowd gasped. Or at least half of it gasped. The southern half, which had decided to claim Justin as their own since he’d delivered their forest a week earlier. They clearly couldn’t see him fighting their Justin.

  The other half began to chant his name.

  Rachelle’s eyes were dark with fear.

  He kissed her cheek. “I taught him; remember that.”

  He climbed over the railing, and the people made a way for him down through the bleachers. He gripped his sword at his side and vaulted over the short wall that separated the field from the seats. The walk to the main platform seemed long with all the cheering and with Justin drilling him with a stare.

  He stood before Ciphus, who shut down the crowd.

  “I request you, Thomas of Hunter, supreme commander of the Forest Guard, to defend our truth against this blasphemy in a fight to the death. Do you accept?”

  “I will. But I will seek banishment, not death, for Justin.”

  “That is my choice to make, not yours,” Ciphus said.

  Thomas had never heard of such a thing.

  “I understood that it was my choice,” he said.

  “Then you misunderstand the rules. The Council made this rule and now you must abide by it. It will be a fight to the death. The price for this sin is death. I am not willing to consider the living death.”

  Thomas thought a moment. It was true that the law required death of anyone who defied Elyon. Banishment was a kind of death, a living death, as Ciphus called it. But now, forced to consider it, he realized there could be a problem with banishing Justin. What if he entered the Horde and gained power under Qurong? What if he then led their armies against the forest? Perhaps death was the wiser choice, though not what he desired.

  “Then I accept.” He dipped his head.

  “Swords!” Ciphus cried.

  A Council member lifted two heavy bronze swords from the floor by his stool and set them on the stage.

  “Choose your sword,” Ciphus said.

  Thomas glanced at Justin. The warrior watched him with mild interest now. Did the man have a death wish?

  Thomas picked up the swords, one in each hand, and walked toward Justin. “Do you have a preference?”

  “No.”

  Thomas flipped both swords into the air. They turned lazily in unison and stuck into the boards on either side of Justin.

  “I insist,” Thomas said. “I don’t want it said that I beat Justin of Southern by picking the better sword.”

  The crowd reacted with a rumble of approval.

  Justin kept his eyes on Thomas without looking at the swords. He stepped forward, yanked out the one to his right. “Neither would I,” he said, tossing the weapon so that its blade pierced the earth at Thomas’s feet.

  Another rumble of approval.

  “Fight!” Ciphus yelled. “Fight to the death!”

  Thomas plucked the sword out and swung it twice for feel. It was a standard Guard weapon, well balanced and heavy enough to sever a head with one swipe.

  Justin put his hand on the sword and waited. Enough of this posturing. The sooner they ended the fight, the better. To know a man in a match of this kind meant watching his eyes. And Thomas didn’t like what he saw in Justin’s eyes. They were too full of life to cut so easily from his shoulders. The man was full of beguiling influence that unnerved him.

  He skipped to his left and leaped to the platform, ten feet from Justin. He briefly wondered if the man was simply going to die without a fight, because he hardly shifted.

  Thomas lunged and brought the sword around with enough force to cut the man in half.

  At the last moment, Justin pulled his sword up and deflected the blow. A horrendous clash filled the arena. It was exactly what Thomas had expected. In the moment when Justin was blocking his blow, he reached out with his left hand and tapped the man on the cheek.

  It was a move he’d taught them all as a bit of a joke once. Mikil dubbed it “The Cheek.” What Thomas didn’t expect was the hand that shot out from Justin at precisely the same moment. It ta
pped his cheek.

  The crowd roared and Thomas thought he could hear Mikil’s cry of approval above the din.

  He couldn’t help but smile. Good. Very good. Justin smirked. Winked.

  Then they went a full round, gripping their swords with both hands. Clash and counterclash, jabbing, sparring, thrusting, moving around the platform—fundamental swordplay to loosen the joints and feel out the opponent. Nothing about the way Justin fought surprised Thomas. He reacted precisely the way Mikil or William or any of his other lieutenants would to each of his attacks.

  And he was sure that nothing he did surprised Justin either. That would come later.

  They began to add a few of the Marduk moves, feigning, bobbing, weaving, rolling—off the stage to the field, then along one side of the platform and around the perimeter. Back on top of the stage.

  “You’re a good man, Thomas,” Justin said too softly for the crowd to hear. “I always liked you. And I still do, very much.”

  Their swords clanged again.

  “You’ve kept up your skills, I see,” Thomas said. “Killing a few of your Horde friends on the side, are we?”

  Justin blocked a blow, and they faced each other in a momentary stall.

  “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Be careful.”

  Thomas sprinted four steps. It was a classical approach to a vault, but Thomas didn’t vault. He planted his sword as if to flip over it, but instead of going high he swung low.

  Justin had already lifted his sword to ward off the expected jab that would come when Thomas catapulted himself over his head. But now Thomas was closer to Justin’s ankles. It would end here, when he took Justin from his feet and followed with his blade.

  Thomas swung around his sword, feet first, bracing for the impact of his shin against Justin’s calves.

  But suddenly Justin’s calves weren’t there. At the last moment he’d seen the reversal, and although he was completely off balance, he’d managed to launch himself into a backflip. A high somersault off the edge of the platform. Then around in almost perfect form.

  He landed on the field, feet spread and hands on his sword, ready for anything.

  Thomas saw it all while he swung through his empty kick, and he used his momentum to pivot all the way around into a back handspring, off the platform, into what was called a back-whip.