by Ted Dekker
Her husband, a mighty warrior.
She knew that he had fought Justin yesterday and lost. And she knew that the Horde general, Martyn, was her own brother, Johan.
Rachelle swallowed and set her feet on the floor. This was how Thomas had first felt, waking up in the black forest fifteen years earlier. He’d tried to make her understand, but only now could she. Only he’d awakened without any memory because of his fall.
He’d fallen in the black forest and as a result began dreaming of the histories. This was the reality; that was the dream. She was sure of it. At least at this moment she was sure of it.
Her wrists hurt. The handcuffs. They’d drawn blood, and Thomas said that blood was special. They’d fallen asleep, hand in hand, her wrist touching his. It was why Monique was dreaming of Rachelle at this very moment. It was how she had dreamed of Monique before. She’d cut her shoulder on the door and it had bled in her sleep next to Thomas. A connection had been made in their blood.
Her children . . .
She threw off the blanket, donned a long-sleeved blouse to hide her wrists, and hurried from the room. She found Marie exactly where she expected to find her, digging through the fruit basket for a choice nectar.
“Hi, Mother.” Her daughter yawned. “Papa’s gone.”
“Yes. Your brother’s still sleeping?”
“That’s all he does anymore.”
“He’s a growing boy.”
She hurried to his room. Yes, indeed, there lay Samuel, arm hanging over the edge of his bed, lost to dreams of fighting the Horde with a sword as tall as he. She walked over and kissed the back of his head.
She was living a second life! In an instant she’d become a whole new person. She could smell Tuhan blossoms. Someone was cooking meat. Laughter drifted in from outside. Everything felt new. This was the time of the annual Gathering when the streets would be full of dancing and stories and the drinking of ale. And she was a magnificent dancer, wasn’t she? Yes, of course she was. One of the best.
Her heart was having a hard time keeping up. She understood why Thomas was so persuaded. She had to find Thomas and tell him about this immediately!
Marie had found a large yellow nanka, and its juice ran down her chin.
“Don’t be a pig, Marie. Wipe your chin.” She looked at the living room. Her living room. Thomas’s second sword, which normally leaned in the corner, was gone. Odd.
“Do you know where Papa went?” she asked Marie.
“No. He left early. Before the sun was up. I heard him.”
Rachelle froze. His words to her in France echoed through her mind. I’ll have to go after Justin to do that, he’d said.
After Justin?
He’d gone after Justin! Justin was with Martyn. They would be with the Horde. For the second time this week, he’d left her sleeping while he sneaked off on some harebrained mission that only a man as stubborn as Thomas could take beyond mere fantasy.
Justin and Martyn had gone east, according to the scouts. East toward Qurong’s army.
She hurried to the bedroom and completed dressing. If Justin was with Martyn, then he was also with Johan. Did Thomas mean that he was going after her brother?
What if he meant to kill Johan, thinking that in doing so he would kill Carlos? But he couldn’t do that. Johan was her brother! They’d all lost family to the Horde fifteen years ago, when Tanis was deceived, but they dealt with it as part of a great tragedy. The thought of losing her own brother to her husband’s sword now brought a small panic to her chest.
She had to stop him! And even if he hadn’t gone to kill Johan, she had to tell him that she now knew. She was Rachelle. She was Monique! Without a doubt, they were connected.
She wrapped her wrists and managed to make the bandage look like bands with brass accents. The first major task was to get out of the village alone without casting suspicion on her intent. She couldn’t walk too fast to Anna’s, and when she asked the older mother if she would watch over Marie and Samuel for the day while she went out to gather a special treat for Thomas, she had to sound natural.
Andrew, who oversaw the common stables, would ask questions about why she was taking one of the stallions, but she’d simply tell him that she was in the mood for a wild ride. The Gathering inspired the women as well as the men.
Samuel had dragged himself from sleep by the time she returned with Anna’s blessing. She hugged both children, told them to mind their Aunt Anna, and promised to be back by nightfall. If she wasn’t back, not to worry, she and Papa had some preparations they had to attend to.
A full hour after waking, Rachelle left behind the last of the curious well-wishers who’d inquired where she was headed on such a magnificent animal. She led the horse through the gates, threw her leg over the saddle, and rode east.
The first hour seemed to last only minutes. With Monique everything felt new and fresh, as if experienced for the first time, which was the case in Monique’s mind. The French woman had surely never imagined feeling so powerful, such an accomplished rider, so full of passion as Rachelle was now.
So invigorated was she in fact that she half hoped that one of the Horde would jump out from behind a tree so she could kick him back to where he belonged. Twice she very nearly dismounted to try a few flips. But her thoughts of finding Thomas kept her on the run.
One hour became two and then three and then five. The forest flew by and her mind flew with it. With each passing mile, her eagerness to find Thomas increased. She now knew that he had indeed come this way—his stallion’s tracks, which she could read like her own palm, marked the mud at nearly every turn. He’d passed with Mikil. At least he had the sense to bring his best warrior.
She considered the potential danger ahead, but whatever danger her husband had submitted himself to wasn’t too much for her. The fate of worlds was at hand, and she had her role to play.
She reached the edge of the forest late in the afternoon and pulled up. The sky and the desert were both blood red this time of day. She’d left the village about two hours after Thomas and had followed his tracks up to this point. If she rode hard, she might reach the place where—
Her heart suddenly rose into her throat. The Horde camp was there, on the horizon, just visible against the red sand. They’d moved closer.
Much closer.
Did they plan to attack? She felt immobilized by panic. The camp seemed larger than she remembered. Nearly double in size. This could only be a gathering for war! Thomas had gone down to them?
She studied his tracks. They went straight on and turned down the canyon. There were two well-traveled paths down to the desert, and Thomas had taken this one. He’d seen the Horde camp and continued. Then she would as well.
Rachelle prodded her horse.
The black stallion had taken only two steps when something struck her broadside.
She gasped and looked down. A stick protruded from her side. The shaft of an arrow. Pain screamed through her body.
Another arrow smacked into her shoulder, and a third into her thigh. She saw the Scabs near the tree line now, a party of five or six. They had bows! She didn’t know—
The next arrow hit Rachelle in the back. She kicked the horse into a startled gallop. To her left! She had to get away from them!
There were arrows sticking from her body. Arrows! Panic crowded her mind.
The stallion plunged down a narrow path, over the canyon’s lip.
Three more arrows whipped by her head and she ducked. The pain from the others rode up and down her back and leg in waves now.
“Hiyaa!” The path was steep and the horse slipped on the stones but caught itself and leaped over a boulder that suddenly blocked their way. Then around a bend.
Would the Scabs follow?
They were yelling above her now. Laughing.
She reached the sandy bottom and pointed the horse up the first narrow canyon to her right. Hoofs clacked along the stone high above. They were giving chase along the top of the
canyon. She pulled the horse close to the left wall and leaned low, wincing with the pain. Terrible pain through her gut.
She was shot. Four arrows—two in her body, one in her leg, one in her arm. She had to hide and then find help.
Should she try to remove the arrows?
We’re going to die.
No, no, she couldn’t die! Rachelle couldn’t die! Not now!
The horse slowed to a trot. Voices echoed, but they seemed to have fallen back. The rocky canyons were like a maze—it was no wonder they had opted to ride along the plateau. But if she worked her way further in, away from the walls near the forest, they would have a difficult time finding her.
Rachelle cut into a side wash, then through a small gap that fed into a long basin. The voices sounded distant now, but her mind wasn’t as clear as it had been. Maybe she wasn’t hearing as well. She gave the horse its head and examined the arrow in her leg. If she left it in, the movement of the horse might cause the tip to work its way farther in. If she pulled it out, it would bleed badly.
She moaned. The arrow in her side was worse. It had sunk in deep. Through her internal organs. Even if she could extract it without passing out, she would risk terrible internal bleeding. She could feel the stalk of the one in her back.
It was horrible! She had ridden after her husband like a fool and now would die out here in the canyons, alone!
She didn’t know how long she rode, or where the horse took her. Only that her strength steadily faded. The Scabs had lost her, but she didn’t know if they were waiting along the edge for her to return, so she kept the horse walking.
You have to find help. You have to go back into the forest and hope for help. She stopped and looked around, but her vision was blurred, and she knew that she would never find the forest in this waning light.
In fact, if she was right, she was at the edge of the desert now, where the canyons gave way to miles of sand. How far had she traveled? If she just kept riding, she might find herself even farther from where she needed to go. And she couldn’t keep riding with the arrows in her. The slightest movement shot spikes of pain along her leg and up her spine.
She had to rest. She had to get off the horse and lie down. But she was afraid that if she tried to dismount, she might faint.
“Elyon, help me,” Rachelle whispered. “Dear God, don’t let me die.”
But she knew she would.
21
THOMAS AND Mikil sat across a reed table from Martyn in an open tent that some of the general’s aides had erected for their leader after he’d agreed to talk to Thomas. The stench of Scab was almost too much to bear.
The fact that the Horde had nearly doubled in size and moved closer to the forest was an ominous sign, all the more reason for Thomas to approach Martyn.
They’d ridden in waving a white flag—Thomas’s idea. No one had ever used a white flag, to his recollection, but the sign was understood quickly enough, and the camp’s perimeter guard had held them off at a hundred paces while they checked with their leaders. Another general had finally come out, heard that Thomas of Hunter requested an audience with Martyn, and relayed the question.
“Tell Martyn that Thomas of Hunter requests a meeting with Johan,” Thomas said to the general.
“You mean Justin of Southern?”
“No, not with Justin. With Johan. That is the name I know him by. Johan.”
Half an hour later they had their meeting.
Johan was clearly there under his stinking, flaking skin. Older now, late twenties. Paint his eyes green and his skin flesh-colored, and no one who’d known the boy could possibly mistake him. The round circle of the druids was shaded on his forehead.
But he moved and spoke like a completely different man. His eyes shifted warily and he kept his movements short to minimize the pain from his disease. Like all of the Horde, he didn’t think of the rot as a disease. His mind was sharp, but he’d been swallowed by lies that had long ago persuaded him that this was the way all good men should look and move and feel. Pain was natural. The smell of rotting flesh was more a scent of wholesome humanity than a stench.
Johan looked down at Thomas and wrinkled his nose. “The lakes do that to you?”
“Do what?”
“Give you that terrible smell.”
“I suppose so. And your skin is no less offensive to us. You hated the smell yourself, three years ago. Where’s Justin?”
Johan hesitated. “He left an hour ago.”
“Will he be back?”
“Yes.”
“Will you agree to peace with him?”
“That is clearly his intent.”
“Is it yours?”
“You tell me; is it?”
The man was talking in riddles. He needed to speak with Johan candidly.
“What I have to say is for your ears only,” he said. “Send your men away and I will send my lieutenant away.”
“Sir—”
He held up his hand to Mikil. She wouldn’t question him further in public.
“Surely you don’t fear me,” Thomas said. “You’re my wife’s brother.”
“Leave,” Johan said to the four warriors behind him.
They hesitated, then backed out. Thomas looked at Mikil who glared disapprovingly, then left. Both parties walked off about fifty paces in opposite directions, then stopped to watch from the open desert.
“Johan,” Thomas said. “You don’t remember your real name, do you?”
“You mean the name I had as a child. Every boy grows up. Or are all Forest People still children?”
“Is there any of Johan left in you?”
“Only the man.”
“And why is it that one of my soldiers can kill five of yours?”
Johan’s eye twitched. “Because my men are only just now learning to fight you. I know your ways. Our skills will soon surpass yours.”
“You are teaching them new tricks, aren’t you? But think back, Johan. Before you lost your way in the desert. You were much stronger than you are now. The skin condition, it’s a disease.”
The man just held his gaze.
“How did you get lost?”
“Is this why you called me out? To talk about a time when we played with toy swords?”
Johan’s mind was as scaled as his flesh, Thomas thought. He wondered if Rachelle could break through his deception.
“No. I’ve come because I know more than I should.” He had to be careful. “I overheard a discussion in your leader’s tent several nights ago when I killed the general. I hope you won’t hold his death against me.”
“The general you killed was a good friend of mine.”
“Then please accept my condolences. Either way, I now know that you’re conspiring with Justin and Qurong against the Forest People. You will offer them peace, and in the face of overwhelming odds, you think Justin will persuade our people to accept your offer. But you intend to betray us once you have won our trust.”
Thomas let the statement stand. Johan made no comment. It was impossible to read his face, shrouded by the dark hood and scaled as it was.
“I’m curious, what will Justin receive for his betrayal?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Long enough.”
“I should have known. You’re both originally from our forest. First you go missing three years ago, and then you conveniently show up as a general who knows our ways. A year later Justin refuses my appointment and begins to preach his peace. All the while you two are plotting the overthrow of the forest. For all I know you hatched the plan with Justin in the Southern Forest and then chose the life of a Scab. He’s been seeding doubt while you’ve been building your army to take advantage of that doubt. Was it his idea or yours? Will you make Justin supreme leader of the Horde?”
Johan—Martyn, the druid general—stared at him for a long time. But he refused to answer.
“Still, you mu
st be worried about the toll a battle in the forest would have on your army or you’d just march on us now, without any attempt at betrayal,” Thomas said. “Betrayal is your equalizer. You hope to catch us with our guard down.”
“Is that right? Well, if you know this, our plan is foiled.”
Such a quick admission? But Johan didn’t have the tone of a defeated man.
“Not necessarily. We each have a problem. Mine is Justin; yours is Qurong. I think that Justin may have enough power to compromise our will for battle.”
Johan hesitated. “A surprisingly candid admission.”
“I’m not here to play games. Even with your betrayal, the battle would be fierce. Many of your men would die. Most.”
“A possibility. And what is my problem?”
“Your problem is Qurong. He will fight this battle even knowing his betrayal has been compromised. In the end, the forest will be red with blood and you will have few people left to govern.”
“Isn’t that the way it is? War?”
“No.” Thomas lowered his voice. It had taken Mikil most of the ride through the forest to embrace the wisdom of what he was about to propose.
“There can never be a true peace between our people; neither of us can accept it. But there can be a truce.” He tapped his finger on the table. “Now.”
“As Justin has proposed. A truce.”
“He’s proposed a peace that will end in more bloodshed than anyone can imagine, most of it Horde blood. The only way I see out of this quagmire is for the brother of my wife, Johan, to lead the Horde instead of Qurong. You may have become a man, but will you kill your own sister?”
“I could have you killed for such words,” Johan said. He glanced at his men. Clearly he wasn’t excited about the mention of treason against his leader.
“You’re suggesting a revolt against Qurong, the man who is my father.”
“He’s not your father.”
“His name was Tanis, and I’ve always seen him as my father.”
Tanis. Tanis? The firstborn of all men. A father figure to the people of the colored forest. Qurong was Tanis! Thomas felt his chest constrict. He took this in with alarm, though he hoped none showed.
