Infidel

by Ted Dekker

  “To rescue a fighter taken by the Horde before they get too deep into the desert.”

  Boris’s face flattened. “Into the desert? That’s unusual.”

  “Then let me tell Thomas of your decision and find someone willing to follow orders before it’s too late.”

  “I didn’t say I was refusing orders. But you have no script, and you’re talking about considerable danger. I have the right to question a pup half my rank, don’t you agree?”

  “Fine, question fast. The Horde already has a day’s start. It’ll take a night of hard riding on fast horses to catch them. I want to be in and out before daybreak.”

  Crickets sang in the forest to their right. Johnis continued. “Leave the fires burning, and gather the men. We have to run, but as Thomas said, your horses are rested, and we have water to bathe on the way. Can you be ready in five minutes?”

  Again the captain hesitated.

  Johnis knew that in the Guard, special missions were common— as unusual as this order was coming from a sergeant who was hardly sixteen years old. He was counting on the fact that it wasn’t beyond the realm of schemes Thomas had cooked up on a dozen occasions before.

  “Why rescue this one fighter?” Boris pressed.

  “For the love of …” The captain known as Hilgard faced his peer. “We’re letting time slip, man!”

  “This one fighter is the mother of the Chosen One and the hope of the forest!” Johnis cried. “And no one can know that. Not a soul, or I’ll know it came from one of you! If that means nothing to you, then accept it on blind faith. I have Silvie of Southern with water mules. Meet us at the bottom of the pass. But for the love of all the forests, hurry!”

  He reared his horse around and slapped it into a full run.

  You’ve lost your mind, Johnis. He swallowed hard. He was mad. And your heart has been blackened by the Dark One. This time you’re playing with the lives of five hundred fathers and mothers.

  He grunted and slapped the horse again. No, he had to follow his heart, no matter what the cost! He needed his mother back. That and nothing else was what his heart told him.

  “Mount up, Silvie!” he cried, rushing in. “We’re going down the pass into the desert! If we go all night, we’ll—”

  “Stop it!” she snapped.

  What did she mean, stop it?

  “You’re not yourself! You’re rushing off, and you aren’t telling me everything.”

  “I am myself! I’m more myself than I have ever been. And you’re going to have to decide if you like me this way, following my heart, doing what I know is the right thing to do.”

  She stared at him as if he’d slapped her, but he didn’t have time for this. The plan was set in motion, and he wouldn’t compromise it now. He had to count on Silvie’s loyalty to him.

  He grabbed one of the mules’ ropes and tugged the beast behind, “If you decide I’m worthy, then bring the rest of the water with you. If not, then run back to the village.”

  “Johnis … please!”

  He ignored her and headed for the gap that led down to the canyon floors. The stallion navigated the rocky ground easily, but Johnis slowed its pace, silently begging Silvie to run up behind him and swear her allegiance as she had once before.

  And she did, trotting her own horse and the two mules down through the pass, sending stones rolling loudly as she rushed to catch up with him.

  Silvie pulled up behind him and fell in line. “Fine, you have my decision; are you satisfied?”

  He looked back and forced a grin, though he felt more like crying, swamped with desperation at what he was leading her into. “It’s your call, Silvie. I’m only doing what I have to do, with or without you.”

  She waited a moment before speaking again. “Don’t kid yourself. You need me.”

  “Do I?”

  “You do.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re not letting me run off alone to get my head chopped off, isn’t it?”

  “You’re not yourself, Johnis,” she said quietly.

  He hesitated, then spoke strongly, as much for his own benefit as hers. “You’re wrong.”

  The setting sun was hidden by canyon walls when they reached the sandy floor and headed out toward the desert, where their course would turn south.

  South … after the Horde.

  “Permission to ask a question, your Almightiness,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I understand your fear of running out of lake water, but these mules don’t exactly run like the wind. We’re on a scouting trip after the Horde. Don’t we need to run like the wind?”

  “We do. And we will. As soon as we get out of the canyons.”

  “Then why not stake the mules here and go?”

  A clatter of rolling stones echoed through the canyon from the cliffs behind them. They looked back and saw the group of fighters hurrying down the pass to catch them.

  “Because the water’s for an army,” Silvie said with more than a little wonder in her voice. “You’re bringing an army.”

  I am.

  “How …?” She didn’t bother finishing the question. “You don’t need an army to scout. What kind of impossible scheme have you thrown together?”

  “Be at my side, or leave me now, Silvie,” Johnis said, staring into her eyes. “But if you stay, promise not to undermine me.”

  Her face slowly softened. “I stay with you. Elyon knows you’re going to need me.”

  oices carried in the desert, and for this reason they spoke only as necessary. The fighters who hadn’t bathed yet that day took turns splashing water over their skin before catching the main group. When they’d all bathed enough to last them another twenty-four hours, they cut the mules loose and ran, as Silvie had put it, like the wind.

  Silvie rode beside Johnis, who kept his face fixed forward into the night. She didn’t say much, but with every passing stride, her regret swelled. The only reason she stayed by his side was because the last time she’d doubted him, he’d shown her wrong, so utterly wrong.

  So then, this time he could be right as well. Hadn’t she praised him in front of the whole village for his ability to think with this heart? And she’d cried for all to hear that he deserved to command an army, never mind that he was only sixteen.

  Well, now he was commanding an army. And the thought unnerved her to the core.

  Two hours into the night, one of the forward scouts found the deep marks left by the Hordes retreat, The fighters turned after them, headed south. Stars glittered in the cool sky high above. The red moon was down in the west. Pitch blackness ahead—it was only a matter of a few hours before they caught the army. And then what? Johnis didn’t seem eager to answer that question, though she asked it twice.

  The word had spread through the ranks: they were on a secret mission for Thomas. One of their own had been taken and must be recovered at all costs. The Horde would never expect a raid from the rear only a day after its massive army had been turned back.

  And who was the fresh sergeant who led them? None other than Johnis of Ramos, the one who’d turned back the Horde in the first place. They owed their lives to him.

  Onward! Into the desert! They would harvest enough Horde hair to fashion a hundred footballs!

  But Silvie knew that the Guard always rode into battle with the expectations of giants taking on rodents. True, Scab warriors were slower than Forest fighters due to the disease that pained their flesh. And also true, Scab warriors didn’t have bows yet, or metal blades as strong as the Guards.

  But Scab swords had no difficulty taking off a head or severing an arm. And the Horde army greatly outnumbered the Forest Guard. In this case, several hundred thousand to their paltry five hundred.

  She pulled up next to Johnis and spoke quietly. “If I ask a question, will you at least give me the honor of answering?”

  His head was low over his horse and his high cheekbones firm. She’d never seen him so dete
rmined. Stubborn was more like it. Like those mules they’d left behind in the desert. She wasn’t even sure he’d heard her.

  “Would you risk the lives of all these fighters for your mother?” she asked.

  She knew he could hear her above the pounding hooves behind, but he wasn’t answering. Only then did she see the wetness on his cheeks.

  Tears, drying in the wind. Her heart felt sick for him.

  She pressed the issue. “Tell me you’re not going to go in with swords swinging.”

  Johnis spun, face hard, eyes wet. “Of course not!” he growled. “Do you really think I’m a fool?”

  “I think that if you would jump off a cliff for a Roush named Michal, you’d go even further for your mother.”

  He faced the darkness ahead. “And you think that’s a mistake?”

  “No. But would you go there for me? For the rest of these fighters? You and your mother aren’t the only ones in the world tonight.”

  Just this morning Silvie had wondered if she would like this sixteen-year-old man to ask for her hand in marriage. The notion had quickened her pulse. It had been a wild moment of impossible thoughts, but they were both of marrying age. Both fighters and lovers of Elyon. Both willing to die for the other.

  Both beautiful in their own ways. She certainly thought he was.

  She wouldn’t necessarily accept his proposal, of course. The Guard discouraged fighters from wedding as young as civilians did, but the heart didn’t always follow army regulations, did it? She relished the thought of being asked.

  But the voice that came from him now was from an animal, not a lover. “Leave me, Silvie. If you’re going to undermine me, leave me!”

  The words cut like daggers. She knew he couldn’t mean it. He was only reacting to the news of his mother. He’d been overcome by whatever he’d seen in the books.

  Still, these words from him made her want to cry. They raced over a dune, then down a long slope that rose again across a wide valley of sand.

  “Hold up!” Captain Hilgard whispered hoarsely. “We’re there!”

  So soon! They were only several hours out from the forest— surely the Horde had withdrawn much further.

  Johnis pulled up and stared into the darkness ahead. The whole company stamped to a halt.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I can smell a Scab at a thousand paces, lad. If we don’t see the outskirts of their camp in minutes, I’ll give you my sword.”

  On cue the lead scout galloped over the next dune, reined in his horse, and made a quick signal for contact.

  The captain nodded. “Go slowly.”

  Hilgard motioned the fighters slowly forward on panting horses. Some leaned over, rubbing the mounts’ noses or feeding them water from a canteen. Most held at least one weapon loosely in hand as naturally as a cook might hold a spoon. In the desert the Guard slept with a blade half-swung, so the saying went.

  Silvie pulled out her sword and laid it across her lap. Eight-inch knives rested in sheaths, two on each calf. She could use a knife more effectively than most who’d fought a hundred battles, but in pitched combat arrows and swords fared better than knives.

  The Third reached the scout, who waited in her saddle. She nodded at the crest. “In the valley ahead, as far as the eye can see.”

  Hilgard dismounted and ran forward, with Johnis and Silvie close behind. They dropped three abreast and were joined by Captain Boris.

  Silvie didn’t see them at first for lack of fires. But they weren’t looking for fires—it was the dead of night, and the Horde would be asleep.

  Slowly the faint outlines of the massive Horde camp separated themselves from the surrounding desert sands. The pale tents blended well, only slightly darker, like honey on bread. At the camp’s center, fir away, several much larger tents rose above the others. To the right, thousands of horses slept on their feet or gnawed on straw, their heads bent.

  Silvie’s pulse pounded in the silent night.

  The single greatest advantage the Guard cavalry had over the Horde was the fact that Horde horses couldn’t smell as well because of their own stench.

  Guard, on the other hand, could smell perfectly well the horrible stench that rose from the camp ahead. A nauseating rotten-egg smell hit Silvie in her face like a blast of Shataiki breath. She spat into the sand.

  “Perhaps now would be a good time to give us the plan,” Captain Boris whispered.

  Johnis just stared into the valley. It struck Silvie that he wasn’t prepared for this. None of them were, really. Following idealistic whims, even throwing yourself in front of stampeding horses for a cause was one thing. But leading fighters into battle was another.

  “The ring was left intentionally,” Johnis said to no one in particular. “Its the only reason the Roush could have found it. We have to assume that they wanted us to come after her.”

  “Roush?” Hilgard said.

  Except Johnis and Silvie, none of them had seen a Roush in many years. Johnis was prohibited from speaking of their experience. He’d slipped. So Silvie deflected the question.

  “Figure of speech. He means scout. Unseen and silent.”

  Hilgard nodded. “You’d need to be Roush to get in there, I can tell you that much.”

  “Not if we create a distraction,” Johnis said.

  “And how can you be sure you know where this fighter is?” Boris demanded. “A distraction will only cause commotion for so long before it wakes the whole camp. Our horses are tired; remember that.”

  “Where would you keep the most valuable prisoner you possess?” Johnis asked.

  “At the command center.”

  “Exactly. That’s where they have her.”

  “But if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  A small flame flared to life from a tall hill on their right, then faded and died. “What was that?” Silvie asked.

  But she didn’t need to ask again, because she now saw the dark outline of a rider, unmoving against the distant horizon where the flame had burned.

  Had they been seen?

  “So SOON,” QURONG, LEADER OF THE HORDE, SAID. “BECAUSE of one ring. How could you know?”

  “I have my ways. We are agreed then?”

  They stood in the courtyard of the royal tent, gazing west toward the hill from which the signal had come. The Horde army was four hundred thousand strong, and although they left most of their women and dogs at home, they still moved slowly. It wouldn’t have taken long for the Guard to catch them.

  Most of the heavy equipment was loaded on carts dragged behind horses and mules—carrying tents that each slept ten, cakes of sago bread and taro root, barrels of wheat wine, hay for the horses, and blacksmiths wares. Mounted warriors carried the rest.

  They’d pitched the tents and bedded down so that all would appear to be business as usual, although the traitor had made it clear that the Forest Dwellers didn’t really know what business as usual was among the Horde. They didn’t send spies for fear of catching the skin disease. This was the one advantage the Horde held.

  Qurong rolled his neck and felt it crack. A pain in his spine had kept him from sleep—so he’d spent the hours pacing and drinking. The Dark Priest had suggested he offer a prayer to the winged serpent they worshipped, to ease his pain, but Qurong didn’t trust this black magic business. He was more interested in destroying the Forest Dwellers.

  How leaving one ring on a boulder could have led the Guard into the desert, Qurong had no idea. But if the traitor could lure them so easily, he would command as one of their generals, as agreed.

  “Of course, agreed.”

  “And I will be called Martyn,” the traitor said.

  “Fine, Martyn. How many are there?”

  “Our scout says only a handful. A few hundred. We’ll slaughter them. We have ten thousand on their flanks, closing on them as we speak. They have no escape. The battle I promised you will be over in minutes.”

  “If Thomas isn’t with them,
then it will be a shallow victory,” Qurong said. “It’s Thomas we need.”

  “And it’s Thomas we will have,” the traitor who would be called Martyn said. He took a long breath, then explained with soft confidence, “The ring I left for them to find belonged to the Chosen One’s mother.”

  And then Qurong understood. They’d taken the woman months earlier and learned only recently that she was the mother of the young recruit whom Thomas believed had been chosen to deliver the Forest Dwellers: Johnis.

  “You’ve lured Johnis with his mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you’ll lure Thomas with Johnis.”

  No answer. Clearly, that was his intent.

  “And if you fail?”

  “I won’t. The trap is sprung.”

  The traitor’s brilliance made Qurong wonder if he himself should be concerned for his power.

  “This is why we turned our army back at the western cliffs, because of this plan you’d hatched? It would have been better for you to tell me this sooner.”

  “No, we turned back because the Chosen One survived the desert and warned them with the fire—don’t ask me how, but he did. The Guard had higher ground and would have cut us to ribbons at the cliffs. That’s why I turned back. That and the fact that there is always more than one way to skin a cat.”

  “Skin a cat?”

  The traitor who would be called Martyn shrugged. “An expression that Thomas brings from his dreams of the ancient time. You’ll have Thomas within the week. Excuse me.” He turned to go. “I have a battle to attend to.”

  “Bring me Thomas’s head, Martyn. Just his head.”

  here, another!” Silvie whispered, pointing to a second torch on their left.

  “It’s a signal.” Boris spun for his men. “They’ve seen us!” The fighters in the valley below immediately scrambled for the high ground on the dune behind them.

  Silvie and Hilgard flew down the dune. “They knew we were coming! Get out. Back!”

  Johnis heard all of it behind him as if in a dream. The captain snapping orders in hushed tones, the horses snorting as their riders kicked them into sudden motion, the creak of five hundred saddles as fighters twisted in retreat.