Infidel

by Ted Dekker

  The long throwing blade turned three times, whistling with each rotation, and buried itself in Jackov’s chest just as the fighter began to realize he was in danger.

  The desert echoed with a smack!

  But Jackov had the presence of mind to reached down with his own knife, and jerk the blade across his horse’s thick neck: a gruesome sight that stopped even Thomas in his tracks. Slowly the horse’s front legs buckled. Then he was in the sand, dying with Jackov, who was already dead beside the animal.

  Johnis knew that he had a few moments at best, and although he’d planned his next move to the last detail, he executed it now only after almost throwing his hands up with pleas for forgiveness.

  Instead he eased his horse up to Thomas’s, took the reins, and walked them both away from the commander, who was still staring at Jackov and the dead animal beside him.

  Johnis was fifteen feet away when Thomas turned back. “It’s a trap! We’re down to your water. It’s not enough to wait around. We turn back now and take advantage of the night.” He strode for his horse, obviously thinking that Johnis had simply pulled the animal away to keep it from spooking.

  “How much left in your canteen?”

  Two canteens full, Johnis thought. But he couldn’t speak He eased the horse farther, looking over at the commander from the corner of his eyes. Almost out of throwing range. And Thomas would, he knew. If he realized what was about to happen, he would.

  But the fact that his Chosen One was about to betray him evidently wasn’t in Thomas’s mind. “Take his weapons …” he said, motioning back to Jackov with his head. “Bring me my horse.”

  Johnis kicked his horse then, when Thomas was flat-footed. Both animals, away from Thomas, carrying Johnis and the last of the water into the desert.

  Behind him Thomas had stopped and was simply staring.

  Forgive me, sir! Johnis wanted to cry. But he lowered his head and galloped into the dusk without a word. He couldn’t risk leaving Thomas in any condition other than what he’d agreed to: on foot, without water.

  Thomas was resourceful, he told himself again. It had been over a day since they’d bathed, but he would find a way to stay sane long enough to foil the Horde and make it back to the forests.

  Of course, that wasn’t very logical. Martyn had wanted precisely this, for Thomas to be stranded without horse or water. Logic told Johnis that Thomas was already as dead as Jackov. And he probably knew it.

  For that matter, so were Silvie and Rosa.

  And Johnis.

  eport,” Martyn ordered, striding from the command tent they d set up just south of the Red Valley.

  “They’ve reached the valley, sir,” the colonel said.

  “They’ve been seen?”

  “Not in the valley, but short of it by ten miles.”

  “And why not in the valley? I demanded they be kept in sight at all times.”

  “You also ordered that we not be seen. There was no place to watch without tipping our hands. Now it’s dark. And you didn’t want men in the valley where they might be seen.”

  The colonel made a good point. One whiff of betrayal and Thomas would be gone. Unfortunately, they had to trust that Johnis’s love for his mother was greater than his sense of duty to Thomas. Everything depended on the heart of one fighter.

  “Then its either done by now or lost,” Martyn said. “Sweep the valley.”

  “It’s dark, sir. You mean in the morning.”

  “No, I mean now. Use all five hundred of your trackers. Find him. Then leave him to wander.”

  The colonel looked up, surprised by this last order. “Sir?”

  “He’s too dangerous to approach.”

  “He’s on foot! You doubt my men on horseback against one man on foot?”

  “All he needs is one horse, and he’ll be gone to fight another day. Do you deny he could kill one of your men, take his horse, and flee?”

  “But one man—”

  “Not one man,” Martyn said. “Thomas Hunter. You forget that I know him like a brother. Be patient. Find him and let the desert dry him up like a dead leaf.”

  “And then?”

  Martyn looked at the dark, eastern sky. “Then I’ll take him myself.”

  TIME WAS AGAINST JOHNIS. HE KNEW IT LIKE HE KNEW that the sun would rise again. If he couldn’t reach the Horde city by daybreak, then all would surely be lost. Martyn’s attention would now be on the Red Valley, but once light flooded the desert, they would see him crossing the flats that ran up to the dunes that hid the city.

  Johnis bathed as the horse ran and kept the beast headed west toward Thrall. Toward Rosa and Silvie. He switched to Thomas’s horse after the first hour because his was nearly dead from the exhausting days of running. Without a loyalty to Thomas, his horse would either follow him, or turn and find its way back to the forests.

  Every hour he considered turning back and throwing himself at Thomas’s feet for mercy. Surely Thomas would think of a way to save his mother. Was he risking too much for a desperate attempt to save two honorable women? Or was he serving his own selfish need to be loved?

  Yes and yes. Still, he rode west, as hard as the tired stallion would take him.

  The large sandy hills rose on the dark horizon when the stars were still in the sky, and Johnis surged forward, clinging to a thin line of hope. But reaching the city was only the beginning of his challenges. He had a plan, sure he did, but so much depended on his speed and boldness.

  Speed, because the light would ruin everything.

  Boldness, because only a fool would attempt a rescue. Perhaps foolishness was a better word. Speed, boldness, and foolishness. Of the three he had mosdy the latter.

  But he did make it over the hills before sunrise. And when the sprawling Horde city came into view, he spoke the first words he’d said ail night.

  “Elyon, help me.”

  THOMAS WASN’T SURE WHY JOHNIS HAD CHOSEN TO BETRAY him, only that he’d done it masterfully by playing on Thomas’s greatest weakness—his belief in the lad.

  Unless it was the Horde general who’d conceived the whole plot, which meant they were playing on Johnis, knowing that he was the way to Thomas because Thomas thought he was the Chosen One.

  Either way, they knew too much. The forests were filled with spies!

  He walked over to Jackov’s dead horse and quickly stripped the knives and sword. He’d been stranded by design, which meant the Scabs would come for him. And when they did, he would take more than a few down in an attempt to take a horse.

  Jackov’s drinking canteen was half full, and he gave himself a spit bath hoping the water was lake water—but he doubted it. Fighters rarely put the healing lake water in their drinking canteens so as not to mistake it for ordinary water and waste it by drinking rather than bathing with it.

  There was no way he could make it to the forest on foot in time. His only chance of survival was to find a Horde horse. But tomorrow would be his third day without a full bath, thanks to a decision encouraged by Jackov not to bathe earlier in the day.

  Better to wait until the Red Valley so the effects of the healing water would last longer if they ran into trouble, he’d said.

  Now, the disease would be setting in by morning. With each passing hour he would grow weaker and less capable of finding or taking a horse.

  He used the spyglass to scan the valley again, but the light was completely gone and he couldn’t make out the hills, much less Horde on the hills.

  Thomas shoved the glass under his belt and turned west. There, low rolling hills led into several shallow canyons. He had to reach them, but not until he’d gotten their attention. Played their game. Shown himself. Let them know their plot had succeeded. He would draw them into a pursuit on his terms, so that he stood a chance of ambushing a stray group and taking a horse.

  If their objective was to strand him in the valley until the disease took him, they wouldn’t attack him until he was weak—his reputation would buy him at least that muc
h time. That is, unless they were fools, and this general wasn’t.

  Thomas took a deep breath, looked left then right into the night, and headed down into the open valley to show himself to this general who called himself Justin of Southern.

  THE SKY WAS JUST STARTING TO LIGHTEN WHEN JOHNIS reached the city’s main gate. Within an hour the Horde would begin to stir. One hour, or all is lost, he thought.

  Speed was his friend. Speed and boldness and more than a little bit of foolishness. For the moment, speed and stealth were impossible companions, so he went for speed alone, kicking the horse and forcing it into a full run straight up the city’s main road.

  The street was made from hard-packed dirt, not stone, so the hooves thudded rather than clacked, but the sound was still enough to wake those in the houses that lined the road. With any luck, those dead asleep would wake, but he would be past, and they would roll over for more sleep.

  Sweat trickled down his temple, over his cheekbones, past the corners of his mouth. The morning was cool, but he was feverishly hot. He felt as if he was galloping into the throat of a dragon—the smell of sulfur that led straight to hell.

  Johnis passed hundreds of houses, and each remained dark after he passed. As he thought, a warring people were accustomed to these kinds of disruptions.

  The temple loomed ahead. “My house is the red mortar house on the right,” Karas had said. Johnis slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the house he assumed was hers.

  Moving now with stealth, he guided the animal around to the stable he’d seen. His horse shook its head with protest, so he knew there were Horde horses inside. A good thing.

  He stripped the saddle, the bridle, and the water bag from his own horse and dumped the saddle and bridle in a barrel by the stable. Without the telltale Guard saddle, which was designed to be light for quick movement, the horse looked similar to any Horde horse.

  Pushing the animal into the empty corral, he angled for the Dark Priests house, water bag over his shoulder.

  “Speed and boldness,” he whispered to himself. “The light is coming.”

  He found the first window open, pushed in the twine-hinged window doors, and worked his way inside, knife in hand. He’d never been in a Horde home before, but it looked like he imagined it would, having been in the temple. It was made mostly from mortar with straw thatchwork covering the walls. Other than every conceivable use of desert wheat, the Horde relied on leather and stone or mortar for all of their construction, giving a very plain look to everything.

  A half dozen large sacks of grain were piled in one corner of the small room. Barrels of wheat wine lined one wall. He had found his way into a pantry, it seemed.

  The exit was covered by canvas—no swinging doors. Johnis slipped his head past the hanging drape, saw the hallway beyond was empty, and slipped into the heart of the Dark Priest’s house.

  Karas was his goal. Just let him find Karas quickly, and then he stood a chance.

  His one saving grace was the fact that the Dark Priest snored. That sound was coming either from the Dark Priest or from Karas, and he doubted such a little girl could produce a sound so disturbing. There were four sets of drapes leading from the hall.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, the snoring came from the room on the far right.

  He crept down the hail and checked the room opposite, saw that it was a large living area with brass hangings on the walls and large cushions on the floor, a table with eight chairs.

  Eight. Why would a house for the Dark Priest who had only one daughter have a table with eight chairs? Unless there was more to this house than …

  Something touched his elbow, and his heart climbed into his throat in a single beat.

  Johnis whirled around. The girl Karas stood behind him, dressed in a white nightdress. White dress, white skin, white eyes—she looked like a spirit from the night.

  She lifted a single finger to her Hps, took his hand, and led him down the hall toward a fifth door he hadn’t seen. A wooden door, this one. He didn’t know if she was leading him to his death or not, but he did see that the sky outside was lighter.

  Speed and boldness. They were running out of time!

  He gave her a nudge, and she doubled her pace, down steps into a black space with several oil lamps on the walls to guide the way.

  “You’re a fool,” she whispered, hurrying forward.

  She was right, “And now I have a fool’s company,” he said.

  “You think I’m helping you?”

  “Are you?”

  She didn’t answer. The curtain at the end of the passage opened into a room lit by two torches that licked with orange flames at open holes above. Oily smoke rose into the exhausts and vented somewhere outside.

  Reclining cushions covered in colored silk cloth ringed a thick table. On the table sat brass candlesticks fashioned to look like winged serpents. The far wall was covered with a dozen examples of Horde weaponry, some of which Johnis had never seen: maces with spiked balls at the end of chains, leather shields like the ones the Forest Guard used, swords of all kinds.

  A hundred or more books of history lined shelves on the near wall. A trunk sat on the floor beneath the largest of several serpent idols. A lavishly decorated room by Horde standards, he thought.

  “There are guards above next to my room,” Karas said, stepping past him. “They will kill you this time.”

  “Have you ever seen books similar to these but with red twine binding them shut?”

  She just looked at him, lost.

  “Never mind. You have to help me, please. You yourself said that your father was wicked. He forced you to help Jackov trick me, right? Because of that, he’s going to kill my mother.”

  She stared at him for a several long seconds. Her own mother was dead—he wondered how she felt about it.

  “When the sun comes up, they’ll know that I came here. Please, I beg you, Karas.”

  “Did you know the priest killed my mother? That’s why I hate him. He cut her throat with a knife when I was a child.”

  You’re still a child, he didn’t say. He’d come to save his own mother and Silvie, but looking at her diseased face, flaking white, he felt a terrible pity for her. He could no more force her against her will than let his own mother die.

  Desperation filled his throat like a fist. He swallowed. “Will you help me?”

  “I saw you from my window and sneaked past the guards. If my father knew, he wouldn’t be happy.”

  “But he’s sleeping. All I need is the key to the dungeon below the temple. I brought water, see?” He held out the bag. “I can still get my mother and Silvie out.”

  “I doubt my father is sleeping.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t sleep in this house.”

  “I thought … Never mind, we’re running out of time.” Johnis paced frantically. “If you’re not going to help me, just let me go. I have to go. Now!” He strode back toward the doorway.

  “This way,” she said, stepping toward what he’d taken as a huge leather shield on the far wall. She lifted the thick leather and stepped into a dark tunnel. “Hurry.”

  A passage to the temple! Johnis ran after her, nerves firing with tension. He could see his mother now, standing with gray eyes, stunned by months of abuse. And Silvie, now writhing with the disease.

  Karas grabbed a ring of keys from the wall, rattled them noisily as her small hands struggled to open a rusted lock, then pushed a door that swung open on rope hinges. They stepped into a room lit by a single torch.

  The dungeon.

  The cage.

  Rosa and Silvie stood in the middle, staring at them with eyes of death. They’d heard the clanking at the door and stood with fear, Johnis thought. Every other time the lock had been opened, they’d faced a new horror.

  This time they faced Johnis, whose legs had turned to stone.

  A door squealed above them.

  “Hurry!” Karas cried, and ran for t
he cage door.

  he night hours dragged by as Thomas Hunter walked the valley, cutting first one way, then another, making as much noise as he thought seemed natural without shouting his intentions for all the hidden Horde to hear.

  He wanted them to know he was there, without their realizing he wanted them to follow. Although he hadn’t seen so much as a hint of shifting shadows or smelled the slightest Horde scent, he knew they were there, watching in the night.

  They would be wearing black, mounted on horses, because if the Scabs were slow on their horses, they were even slower on foot, fighting pain through long hours of forced march. The Forest Guard could outrun the Horde at twice their speed on foot.

  The problem with horses was noise. A snorting beast could be heard for miles in the desert. Not to mention Scab odor, which the Horde had learned preceded them.

  His mind wandered as he marched, mulling over this treachery Johnis had pulled. Could he and Rachelle both be wrong about the boy? Only they and a close circle of confidants knew of the prophecy about the Chosen One who would save them one day.

  They’d often wondered why two prophecies had come, the first spoken by Elyon, the boy, before he dove into the lake waters and disappeared thirteen years ago. The second by Michal, the Roush, spoken to Thomas in his dreams a year later. A chosen child marked by Elyon will prove his worth and destroy the Dark One.

  Johnis had the circle mark on his neck, and he’d proven himself by defeating the Horde once already. A most unlikely candidate, true. But Rachelle was sure. And before today, Thomas had been sure.

  Now Johnis had betrayed him, Thomas Hunter, supreme commander of the Forest Guard. He’d led five hundred fighters into battle, three hundred men and two hundred women, all far more experienced in the ways of war than this young new recruit, who was lucky enough to escape the massacre unscathed except for a bruised shoulder.

  He carried himself like a hero one day and an utter fool the next.

  Rachelle saw it differently, of course. A hero one day, she’d said, and the kind of idealist who would save a world the next. If he’s chosen, he’s chosen, Thomas.