by Ted Dekker
“You can’t just take over!” Billos shouted, red-faced.
Johnis gave Billos one parting glare, then spun his horse and was off.
Silvie, Billos, and Darsal stood empty-handed around the boulder, listening to the sound of fading hooves.
“So he’s the leader then?” Billos asked in a bitter voice.
Darsal nodded. “So it seems. Let it be, Billos. Until he’s proven wrong, we follow him.”
“To the ends of the world,” Silvie said.
Billos glared with dark eyes. “We can’t just keep trotting off cliffs on one boys whim.”
He is right, Silvie thought. On the other hand, so was Darsal.
But if they’d listened to Billos or Darsal when this all started, they would likely be dead.
“Give him space,” she said. “He needs time to clear his head.” Billos spat to one side. “His head needs to be more than cleared.”
ohnis spent the morning in the forest, fleeing himself as much as any villagers who were unlikely to leave him alone. He found a large mango tree under which he buried the books for safekeeping. The look in Billos’s eyes had unnerved him to the spine.
He wasn’t sure what the others had experienced, but contact with the book had revealed more than one thing to him. The power of the books, yes. And his mothers cry—he could never mistake her voice. But if he was right, the books had revealed Billos’s heart. He wasn’t quite sure how, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
Either way, the books had to stay hidden from Billos.
And perhaps from him. From Johnis, who couldn’t put the fear and the anger and the anguish of his mother’s cry behind him.
Johnis … Her voice, as clear as the last time she’d spoken to him while he lay sick in bed with a fever, just a few months ago.
He could still feel her cool hand on his burning cheek, see the wrinkle of her brow. “I’m so sorry, Johnis.”
“It’s okay, Mother, you don’t have to baby me. I’ll be fine.”
“Baby you? You’re only sixteen. I’ll baby you if I want.”
“Sixteen is old enough to be married,” he’d said.
“Maybe, but until the day some other woman takes you into her house, I’ll make the decision on whether or not to baby you.” She stood and paced.
“Please, Mother, you’re making me nervous with all this walking. I’m fine!”
“You’re burning up, Johnis. I can’t find a scrap of Catalina cactus in the village. I can’t just stand here and let you burn to a crisp!”
He’d tried to convince her to wait until she had a proper escort, but she reminded him that she did know how to swing a sword well enough. And his fever was getting worse.
The last time he saw her was in his door frame, giving him parting instructions: “If your fever gets too hot, put the wet cloth on your forehead.”
“I know, Mother.”
“I’ll be back in two hours. No longer.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I love you, Johnis.”
And then she was gone. It was the last time he’d seen her, because they hadn’t recovered her body. They found the blood on the sand and her boots, but her body had been hauled off by beasts or Horde.
Ramos, his father, had gone on a rampage and killed ten Scabs, the hair from whom he’d formed a Horde ball which he’d presented to Thomas, the supreme commander of the Forest Guard.
Johnis had recovered from the fever, but not from his mother’s death. And then last night he’d learned that she wasn’t dead at all. She was, instead, a Horde.
The thoughts buzzed through his mind like a mammoth Mazumbi hornet. Had he ever been so helpless? There was nothing he could do, was there? Nothing at all.
Johnis pulled the reins tight and stared through the branches at the village outskirts. Nothing at all, except …
But the thought bordered on lunacy.
He loosened the reins and let the horse have its head while his own head spun with this new thought.
The truth was Michal had found evidence of his mother, presumably alive.
The truth was Johnis had heard her voice in the books.
The truth was the books had saved him once before.
The truth was there could be a way, however insane, to go after his mother, who at this moment was with the Horde army, retreating to the south, a step farther with every breath he took. He could still hear his mother’s voice from the books.
Bring me back to life …
Did he have a choice?
But this thought now burrowing itself deep into his mind was impossible. And if not impossible—if by some trick or power he made it happen—it was the stuff of blithering foolishness.
Then again, wasn’t this entire quest foolish in its own way? Being forbidden to tell, for whatever reason he could not hope to guess. And what if he managed to recover his mother?
Nonsense! Absurd! Utterly, completely.
And so began the war in Johnis’s soul as his horse wandered into the forest, stopping at patches of grass to feed on the sweet Wiklis flowers. Johnis hardly noticed. With each passing minute his mind sank deeper into the details of a plan he knew was as wrong as it was right.
In the end it was his mothers voice that won him over.
Johnisss … bring me back.
He’d heard that, right? He’d heard her precious voice crying to be heard in the desert. The Dark One hadn’t plotted for him to hear the voice as a lure; no, that wasn’t it. No, the Dark One had tried to smother her cry! But Johnis had heard the order from his mother.
And now he would go do it.
As suddenly as the thought had first presented itself to him, it now became one with him. He was meant to execute this plan or die trying. He was chosen for this day as much as he was chosen to recover the missing Books of History.
Johnis lifted his head, saw that he was deep in the forest, jerked the horse around, and spurred it into a gallop.
The trees gave way to the outskirts of the village ten minutes later. The Forest Dwellers numbered over a hundred thousand among all seven forests, and of those, twenty thousand lived here in Middle Forest. But the houses were woven through trees except at the center, giving the city a village feel, which was why they still called it a village.
Johnis bore down on the wide road that split the village in two, and galloped through the main gate. He ignored the few calls from well-wishers crying out to their newly appointed hero and thundered past. Time was running low, so very low now—the Horde was retreating deeper into the desert with each passing hour!
The barracks, please let her be in the barracks, he prayed.
He slid from his horse while he was still moving, landed in a run, and barged into the barracks Silvie was holed up in, one of twenty similar buildings on the edge of the village.
The barracks were constructed of wood planks, ten simple rooms per barracks, with five bunks in each room. One blanket per bed. Most of the Guard lived in their own homes, which provided more comfort, but the temporary accommodations were all a fighter who’d come from another forest needed.
Johnis had rehearsed the role he would play from this point forward, and he adopted the correct attitude as he banged through the barracks door. The smell of sweat filled his nostrils.
Sergeant, I’m a sergeant, and I’m a well-known hero, fresh from saving the village!
He grabbed the first fighter he saw in the common area, a corporal who watched him stride in with lazy eyes.
“DO you know who I am?”
“You’re in the wrong place, pup,” the man said, sneering.
Johnis considered several options at this unexpected response, and chose the last one that popped into his mind.
“I have an urgent message for Silvie of Southern, the girl who was returned from the desert a hero. Do you know her?”
The warrior sat up, suddenly serious. “Of course I know her. What red-blooded soul wouldn’t know her?”
The man�
�s reaction gave Johnis pause. If he wasn’t mistaken, this corporal was attracted to Silvie. The whole blasted barracks was likely attracted to her.
“Fine, red-blooded soul. Where is she?”
“Not here. If she was here, she’d be with me, now wouldn’t she?”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“You insult me?” The man stood to his feet, a full foot taller that Johnis. Perhaps a different approach would have been wiser. He didn’t have time for this!
“She’s at the archery range, Johnis of Ramos,” a voice said.
Johnis glanced back to the new fighter who’d entered the barracks. “Thank you.”
He ran out the front, only mildly amused by the sounds of argument behind the shut door. Red-blood was getting his ears cuffed, maybe. It didn’t matter. He had to find Silvie.
He found her at the grass-covered archery range, shooting arrows into a stuffed gunnysack thirty paces off. Dressed in brown battle leathers, firm muscles flexing the bow string, short blonde hair loose and twisting around her face. The desire of any red-blood indeed. He watched her for a beat, thinking that he might be able to execute this plan of his without Silvie. She didn’t deserve what was coming her way.
Johnis discarded the thought and called out. “Silvie of Southern, will you come with me?”
She let her last arrow fly with perfect precision, watched it thud into the mark, and then answered without turning. “And why should I come with you, Johnis of Ramos?” She turned, eyes twinkling.
“Because I need you to help me save the world.”
“Really?” Her smile faded and concern crossed her face. “Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay, Silvie. Can’t you see that?
He walked over to her and stared into her eyes, “Silvie …” Words suddenly failed him.
“No, Johnis, I will not ride with you out into the desert to find your mother,” Silvie said, “That’s what you’re planning; I can see it in your eyes. And it’s suicide.”
“It’s not that simple!” He took her hand in both of his. “Was I right about the Books of History? Was I right about Teeleh? Was I right about the water? Was I right about everything I’ve said these last few days? Then trust me, I’m right about this.”
“About what, Johnis? Precisely what are you right about this time?”
He fought through a wave of frustration. “About my mother. About why we heard her.”
“And why did we?”
“Because I’m meant to go to her.”
“Unless that’s what the Dark One wants you to believe.”
Johnis released her and ran both hands through his hair. “That’s not it! You can either choose for or against me. But I have to be at the forest’s edge by nightfall. Make your decision.”
He spun and walked away, frantic that she might not follow, but resolved to continue on his own regardless.
“Johnis.” She caught up to him. “Did I follow you into hell?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll do it again. But I don’t like it. Michal warned us.”
“Michal doesn’t know everything. The books’ powers are beyond him—he confessed that much. He doesn’t know what will happen next. He can only warn of danger. I say, ‘Warn, little bird; there’s not a breath I will ever take again that isn’t laced with danger, thanks to this cursed quest!’”
That set her back long enough for both of them to catch their breath.
“Okay. I’m with you. What’s the plan?”
“The plan is to bathe in the lake again.”
“Because we aren’t going to be bathing again so soon,” she guessed.
“Fill canteens with lake water.”
She sighed- “We should tell Thomas.”
“No! Not this time.”
Silvie eyed him. “What are you planning, Johnis? What has you sweating like a cold bottle of water in the hot sun?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he said.
But he knew he couldn’t tell her. Not yet, not on the way, not until it was too late for her to turn back. If she knew what was in his mind at the moment, she wouldn’t follow so easily.
t took Johnis and Silvie two hours to don appropriate battle dress with the sergeant hash marks, refresh their supplies, retrieve the two Books of History that Johnis insisted stay with him, if only because he didn’t trust anyone else in his frayed state of mind, and race to the Western Forest edge.
He told Silvie the plan on the way. Most of it. And the plan she heard was simple enough: a scouting mission out into the desert.
But Johnis had no interest in a scouting trip. In fact, the closer they came to the desert, the more he knew that a scouting trip was pure folly. He already knew what they would find. The Horde army would be moving south from where they’d been turned back just yesterday. But Johnis didn’t care about the Horde army.
He only wanted his mother back. And to his way of thinking, there was only one way to accomplish that here and now.
As they neared the desert, they began to pass fighters returning home from the western front. Five thousand had been posted here just yesterday, and their supply of lake water was undoubtedly low.
Every Guard fighter was required to carry enough lake water to bathe at least once every three days to fend off the graying Horde disease, but when a whole army traveled, they often carried extra water in large canvas bags thrown over mules and horses.
Johnis was looking for one of these. Or more if he could find them. And he found them as the fighters left the forest behind. One of the Guard was towing a train of three mules, each laden with two five-gallon canvas water bags.
Johnis veered for the mules. “You there, with the mules. Are you headed back to the village?” 1 am.
“Then I’ll take these off you. You won’t need them where you’re going.”
The man eyed him. “And you will? Sir?”
“I may. It’s none of your concern. How many are left on the cliffs?”
“Most have gone. The Third Fighting Group is holding back till morning,” Carry on.
The man hesitated, then tossed the lead rope to Johnis, who caught it and led the animals back the way they’d come.
“And you need the water for what?” Silvie asked. “We just bathed.”
“The last time we went out, we nearly lost our lives because we ran out of water. Never too safe. Here, take them.” He handed her the rope and kicked his horse. “Wait by the Igal point.”
“Where are you going?”
He pushed his horse to a trot, refusing to answer.
The Forest Guard had positioned itself along a line of cliffs overlooking the canyon lands that petered out into sand dunes a mile to the west. From there the desert stretched as fir west as anyone had traveled. The last of the fighters was slipping into the forest, but common strategy required a rear guard to hold a front long enough to ensure that no attack could be mounted from behind.
It was this rear guard that Johnis wanted. Needed.
He found them camped with open fires along the edge of the cliff three hundred yards north of the Igal point, the lookout that saw far into the desert. The Third Fighting Group, five hundred fighters strong. Their fires would be seen deep into the desert by any Horde.
A group of three officers stood to their feet as he galloped toward them on his black stallion. Johnis wiped the sweat from his brow and fixed his jaw.
“Who commands?” Johnis demanded, pulling his horse up hard.
“Who comes?” a fighter with the slash marks of a captain asked.
“Johnis,” he said. “With urgent business. Are you in charge?”
“You have a script?”
“There wasn’t time for formal orders. My word carries the authority of the supreme commander, Thomas Hunter. And the longer we talk, the greater the danger. Who commands?”
“What is the word of a sergeant? What’s the business?”
“I can’t speak to anyone but the commander. Hurry, man, tel
l me!”
“Mind your rank!” the captain snapped.
The second of the three, another captain by his marks, stepped forward and placed his hand on the first captain’s arm. “Johnis, you say. Johnis of Ramos?”
“It is.”
The man’s eyes brightened, and he dipped his head. “Johnis of Ramos, Captain Hilgard of Middle. We’ve all heard of your victory. The word of any fighter who single-handedly turned back the Horde is an honor to hear.”
The third soldier, a sergeant, hurried forward and took a knee. “Its an honor, sir. We are indebted.”
“But the captain isn’t sure?” Johnis drilled the first officer with the hardest look he could muster.
For a long moment the captain he’d first offended held his eyes. A grin slowly crossed his face. “You’re the runt who survived the desert, then.”
“I’m the appointee of Thomas who can only follow his orders before it’s too late.”
“Forgive me, then, lad. I’m in charge. Boris of Eastern. What are the orders?”
“To give me temporary command of your group,” Johnis said. He covered any hesitation in his voice by using more volume and glancing over their shoulders at the five hundred men sitting or standing around their fires. “I need the men ready to move out in five minutes.”
He started to turn his horse as if the matter was settled. Standard operating procedure required that all front guard units be always ready to break camp in under five minutes, but such an order would come only in times of immediate threat.
“Thomas ordered this?” Captain Boris demanded.
Johnis faced him again, flexing his jaw. “The middle village celebrated me late into the night because I offered my life to save yours, Captain,” he bit off. “Now if you want to undo all that I’ve done, then hesitate. But every minute you stand there and question the supreme commander’s authority will cost more lives. Choose now, or let me find a more worthy captain!”
“Easy, lad! I’ve offered my life in a hundred battles; don’t speak to me as if I’m a horse! Now, for the sake of Elyon, tell me what the orders are.”
