by Ted Dekker
Reaching her father was all that mattered now.
QURONG PACED the overlook, seething. “Ba’al!” He stopped next to a servant under the shade of the only tree on the southern ridge, an old miggdon fig that was leafy but barren. From this vantage, there was no sign of the dark priest.
He spun to the servant. “Get that dark witch! Drag him to me if you have to. Now!”
“Yes, my lord.”
His servant fled, and Qurong doubted he’d be back. Cassak was down the hill already, as were his Throaters, leaving only a thousand guards to maintain a perimeter around him.
Qurong turned back to the runner sent by Cassak. “Tell me again what has happened to the warriors. This makes no sense, none at all.”
“A spell, a sickness, I don’t know. But our men in the valley are suffering, my lord.”
“Suffering?” Qurong scoffed. “War is filled with suffering.” Yet there was no denying the ease with which the half-breeds were cutting through his ranks. From what he saw, the albinos were virtually unstoppable, slashing through his men with such wickedness that his best Throaters might as well be bound by rope.
“Aches and pain.” The runner turned frantic eyes down the hill. “They’re baying like wounded animals.”
“Cassak too?”
“All of them, my lord.”
“And you? What of you?”
“No. But I haven’t been in the fighting. The message was passed to me by another.”
“And did he have this ailment?”
“I can’t say. No, sire, I can’t say.”
This was impossible!
“Ba’al!” he thundered again. He loathed the man.
Then Qurong saw the high priest in the valley. He’d set up an altar in a protected enclave far to the east with a dozen of his wicked underlings. He looked to be sacrificing—of all things! A goat. Or a human, it was too far to see clearly.
Qurong watched in disbelief as the distant figure in purple raised both arms to an empty sky. Dark clouds had gathered, promising rain, but he could no longer see Shataiki. No magic in the air to slay the treasonous half-breeds.
When this was over, Qurong would sever Ba’al’s head from his shoulders himself. The man might have some personal tunnel to Teeleh’s lair, but he was a disgusting wraith, and a half-breed too. Let Teeleh feed on his flesh. The Horde needed a trustworthy man to guide them in spiritual matters.
He screamed his frustration into the valley, knowing that nothing could be heard down there but the clashing of metal and groans of men. “Ba’al!”
You’re wasting your breath, Qurong. Your army is falling.
He stared at the battle, red-faced. An albino close enough for Qurong to make out his dark, smooth skin was on foot, wielding a sword in both hands. He swung his sword as if it were a feather, slashing up and across a Throater’s chest, then sidestepping a thrown ax. Like a master among children. His own men looked far too sluggish.
It’s over. In one fell swoop they destroy you.
His mind fled the valley for a moment and embraced an image of Patricia, the wise woman who’d loved him always. He would die for her. And Chelise . . .
Dear Chelise, forgive me. Forgive me, my daughter.
Qurong thrust out his hand, palm open. “Captain!”
The captain of his guard rushed forward and bowed.
“Give me my sword.”
“Sir?”
“My sword, Malachi! Give me my sword. I’m going down. Order the rest of your men to the battle. Today we will live or today we die.”
THE VALLEY of Miggdon might have been a burial pit and Samuel wouldn’t have known the difference. That he’d managed to survive three hours of close battle wasn’t a thing of glory as he’d imagined.
The blood of tens of thousands wet the ground; he could feel it squishing through his soaked boots. The valley was a butchering ground, pure and simple, and Qurong’s army had indeed been the butchered. Horses could no longer navigate the carcasses underfoot and had taken to the perimeter, where those who’d lost their courage tried to flee only to be cut down. By the look of it, Qurong had lost over half of his army, and the rest were feeling the full effects of Janae’s poison. Their own disease was eating them alive, and a wail rose on all sides as they dug at their flesh, desperate for relief.
But more than a third of the half-breeds lay dead as well. It was now only a matter of time before they cut down the last of Qurong’s massive force, but they had already lost enough to leave many wives and children weeping for months.
Samuel ducked under a swooshing mace and swung his sword full in the face of the Scab connected to the other end of the chain. His blade cut cleanly through his neck, and the man’s body took three more steps before tripping and falling over two other bodies.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
“Your back, Hunter!” a voice shouted.
Samuel spun in time to deflect a spear thrown by a young Scab now skewered at the end of Eram’s sword. The half-breed leader caught Samuel’s eye, then spun to ward off two Scabs who wielded long swords.
Samuel’s own joints screamed with pain, and the albinos fighting around him were covered in the scabbing disease. With each swing Samuel felt his father’s eyes on him.
There would be no men left. This wasn’t an attack against the Horde. It was the end of the Horde. The carnage sickened him.
Samuel stopped and stood gasping in the middle of the battlefield, like a man caught in the eye of a storm, calm for the moment. He turned slowly and surveyed the butchery. The scene whipped by him with dizzying speed. A man with no arm, screaming, another staggering as he ran, blinded. An albino weeping. Weeping though he looked untouched by a blade.
The battle would be won soon. In thirty minutes, the great Qurong’s army would be dead and rotting on the ground. Flies had already come by the hundreds of thousands. The stench of Horde flesh had become familiar to Samuel, but bleeding Horde flesh was much worse, and the smell now clogged his nostrils like so much rotting skin.
On all sides the massacre raged. Samuel moved to avoid a spear hurled at him. The Scab stared at him, then fell to his knees and began to weep. He was but a teenager, crying out his mother’s name in a mournful wail. Martha.
“Shut up!” Samuel screamed. “Stop it!”
The boy either didn’t hear him or refused. Furious, Samuel raced forward, leaping over the bodies in his way. He screamed his anger and swung his sword at a full run.
He stood over his kill, overcome by a wave of nausea. Father. Please, Father. He fell to his knees beside the slain body and touched the boy’s warm flesh.
Mother . . . A deep sorrow welled up from his past. Dear Mother, forgive me.
And then the dam that had separated the boy in him from the man broke, and Samuel began to weep. He sat back on his haunches, clenched his eyes against the dark sky, spread his arms wide, and began to wail his anguish.
What had he done? What kind of deception had he ingested? How could he undo this catastrophe?
But it was too late. It was already done. He’d betrayed his father.
Samuel wept.
It would be better now if someone killed him where he sat, crying like a baby. How could he live knowing that this slaughter had been his doing? He’d been born in his father’s image, destined to save the world. Instead he’d played the very Judas his father often spoke of. A traitor.
Slowly the sorrow became anger. Then rage. And then the sky above him became black and the battlefield around him grew silent, and the distant thought that he might be dead crossed his mind. He opened his eyes.
A host of Shataiki, a million strong if there was one, circled no more than a thousand yards above the valley, swirling black tar stuffed with mangy fur and red cherries. He could feel the breeze from their wings as they swept overhead in silence.
The battle around him had come to a halt; the horror painted on the skies above was laid bare for all to see. And Samuel knew the full tru
th then.
They’d broken their covenant with Elyon, leaving the way clear for the Shataiki to destroy them at will. What kind of evil Ba’al and Qurong were dealing, he didn’t know, but he doubted they would be consumed. No, that honor belonged to the half-breeds, to the albinos.
Janae had convinced them all to turn their backs on the protection that came from bathing in Elyon’s lakes. And in truth, Samuel had known all along, hadn’t he? Deep beneath the disease clouding his mind, he’d known that the witch was Teeleh’s handmaiden, because she’d come from the desert bearing his mark.
She was Teeleh’s handmaiden, and Samuel, son of Hunter, was her fool.
He stood to his feet, staring at the sky, blinded by a debilitating rage. It was over. He’d come to kill Qurong, the father whom his mother loved more than she loved even her own kind. Instead he’d killed all but Qurong.
He’d slaughtered the world.
Samuel trembled, wishing death on himself. The dead were a feast, easy prey, blood and flesh for the Shataiki who’d waited for this meal since their captivity in the Black Forest. And Samuel, son of Hunter, was the one serving their meal.
Screams and chaos rose from the valley far behind him, and he turned slowly. To a man, the armies of both Qurong and Eram were gripped by the sight of a single stream of black bats flowing to the ground at the battlefield’s far side, two hundred yards away.
Like a serpent reaching to earth, the Shataiki descended and began to feed. Talons first, ripping into head or backs. Then fangs, penetrating the skulls of any warrior standing. They went down in a tangle of blood and fur.
Warriors abandoned their weapons and tried to run, but the Shataiki caught them and hauled them to the ground. Darkness swallowed the battlefield as the evil creatures poured down through the funnel and spread slowly north.
The valley erupted in panic as the living, a hundred thousand strong still, fled. They could run . . . they would run, but they could not hide. Samuel turned his back and faced north, barely able to stay upright for the fear that shook his bones.
The ridge was empty. The Horde command had fled. And the lone tree that stood beside the tall banners was bare now. No leaves. An angular, burnt husk stood alone against the sky, reaching up like a black claw.
What was green was now black.
“Father . . .” Tears streamed down Samuel’s cheeks as he turned back to the valley. “Father, forgive me! Forgive me, Thomas.”
A small flash of purple streaked across the far southern slope, a warrior mounted on a black horse. It’s Qurong, he thought, catching himself. And as Samuel watched, Qurong swung his sword at any enemy that stood in his way. He’d lost his mind and was attacking now, knowing all was lost. Loyal to the bone.
Even now, the reviled enemy of all that was good showed he was more of a man than Samuel would ever be. He blurted a cry of self-disgust.
Here was royalty, in the Horde. And Elyon’s heir was a pitiful traitor soaked in blood.
Samuel screamed his frustration. He snatched up his sword, bounded over fallen bodies, and flung himself onto the back of a panicked Horde stallion.
He would die, they would all die, but first Qurong would die.
And then . . . then the end could come.
44
THE HORSE Chelise had taken belonged to a dead Horde warrior who was still slumped over his mount on the eastern ridge when she’d stumbled upon them. She’d quickly set her own horse free, shrugged into the fighter’s dark cape, and pushed the fresher mount around the ridge at a full gallop.
Her father had committed his entire army, and from what she’d seen as she raced, they were suffering wholesale slaughter. Except for the few thousand albinos who were inflicting serious damage, the half-breeds’ slight advantage as better fighters should have been offset by the Horde’s numbers.
But even her father’s Throaters were falling where they stood. Something was wrong. There was evil at work here, and the concern she had for her father’s life grew with each passing breath.
The mighty Qurong was defeated! Five hundred thousand would be dead, leaving behind a city of weeping widows and children. And what would Samuel do, shove them all underwater until they drowned?
No, that wouldn’t work. The drowning had to be voluntary to work.
She kept looking down the valley for any sign of her father’s colors. Seeing his men fall like this, he would join. He would rather embrace death than go home stripped of his pride.
Dear Elyon, she had to reach him.
She rounded the southern ridge, whipping the snorting mount. She could see the banners far ahead, but the army was gone. No sign . . .
The sky darkened, and she reined in the horse. What was this?
Shataiki swept through the sky above in a massive, slow-moving vortex. The battle had stalled. Silence smothered the valley.
It was the end, then. Elyon would come. For a brief moment, she felt elation, because this had been foretold. The day of the dragon had come. How the rest would come to pass she didn’t know or care to know any longer. Only that Qurong was saved.
And her mother? Yes, her mother as well, of course. But how?
The Shataiki suddenly dived at the far end of the valley, like the tail of a tornado. The damage they inflicted when they touched the earth was no less destructive. They began to devour the living, and Chelise began to panic.
“Father!” Her scream was hardly a whisper in the echoing din below. “Father! Fath—”
She saw him! Trailing a purple cape. Racing across the valley floor on a black horse. He hacked at a fleeing albino fighter, but his goal wasn’t the main battle. He was going for a small grouping of boulders on the western side, where Chelise could just make out several priests in their dark robes.
She spurred her mount and dived into the darkened valley. “Hiyaa! Hiyaa!”
The Shataiki flooding into the valley were spreading out, like so many black hornets swarming through a crack in a cliff. Those who fled were being singled out and picked off as they clambered up the slopes. She still had time, maybe ten minutes, before the black beasts worked their way to this end.
There was a red pool one half mile east, but how would she get to it?
“Hiyaa!” She whipped the horse and raced to intercept Qurong.
Not until she was within a hundred yards did she guess his intention. Ba’al, the dark priest, was kneeling on a makeshift altar, stripped of his robe. His arms were stretched to the swirling Shataiki, and his jaw was wide in a scream of delight. Four other priests had discarded their clothing as well and were bleeding from deep cuts in their arms and ribs.
This was his finest hour. He was somehow behind the carnage as much as Samuel and Janae.
And now her father meant to take out his rage on the frail white skeleton of a man.
“Father!”
Qurong thundered on, sword raised over his head, roaring.
“Father!”
Movement far behind and to her right caught her attention, and she snatched a glance at a half-breed racing toward them like a dragon heading out of hell.
She spun back. “Father!”
Ba’al surely knew that his slayer had come, but he trusted only in his master, Teeleh, to save him. But Teeleh was clearly in no saving mood today.
Qurong rolled off his horse at a full gallop, came to his feet ten yards from the altar, and rushed Ba’al with both hands on his sword.
Ba’al was weeping at the heavens now, frantic with his own kind of pleasure.
“Father!”
Qurong planted one foot at the base of the altar and swung his blade like a club. The razor-sharp steel severed the nearest of Ba’al’s raised arms, then slashed through his neck before glancing into the air.
The dark priest’s head toppled off his body and landed on the stone, jaw still spread, silent now. Ba’al’s priests fled, crying out to Teeleh like frantic women.
“Qurong!” Chelise pulled up and dropped to the ground. “Supreme Com
mander of the Horde, I beg you to hear me.”
Her father turned slowly, bloody sword limp in his hand. He stared at her as if he didn’t recognize her, lost.
“The end of the world has come, Father. Your army is gone. Your people are without husbands.”
“Chelise?” Slowly his face wrinkled with anguish, and he sank to one knee.
“Yes, it’s me, Father,” she said, stepping closer. “And this is not the way of a mighty leader. You are called to Elyon’s side as you once were.”
He tried to stand but could not.
“You have to drown, Father.”
“Never.” His voice was weak, but his jowls shook with his stubbornness. “I will never drown like a coward.”
“Stop this madness!” she cried. “It’s life, you old fool! You’re here on the edge of hell, and you still resist the call of your Maker?”
“I serve no one. Hell cannot touch me now.” He tried to stand again, this time wincing. Was he in pain? Was he wounded?
She remembered the sight of Stephen, the Scab Janae had exposed to her vial of Teeleh’s poison. Her father had come in contact with it when he’d entered the battle, and was dying already.
“The pain you feel is his betrayal. Teeleh’s disease will kill you even if you’re protected from the Shataiki. You’ve been betrayed!”
“I . . . will . . . not . . . drown!” He managed to stand, but shakily, like an old man.
She grabbed the bottle of blood that Johan had given her. Thomas’s blood, which Janae must have carried knowing it would affect the disease. Why else bottle it up? She broke off the top, exposing a sharp jagged edge, and held it up to him.
“Blood, Father. Thomas’s. Cleansed by the first lake.”
“Don’t be a fool.” He spat to one side. “Ba’al makes me drink Teeleh’s blood; now you want me to consume your husband’s blood? We are in a battle here!”
“And you are dying! Your people are slaughtered by half-breeds and eaten by those who have a thirst for Teeleh’s blood.” She paused, not sure what to do. “I think that if Thomas’s blood mixes with your own, it will stop the disease.”
