by Ted Dekker
He couldn’t keep doing these stupid tricks for doubters. Look, fellers, look at what I can do. Soon enough, word would get out and his reputation would speak for itself, but at the moment these fighters had no benefit of the knowledge they should have, given the situation. They didn’t know the fate of billions could rest on their shoulders. They didn’t know about the virus. They didn’t know that the man who stood before them was from a different world. In a manner of speaking.
Thomas walked across the room, studying them. The president had said no tricks. Well, this wasn’t really a trick. He stopped near Johnson.
“You look like you might have some reservations, Captain.”
Johnson didn’t commit either way.
“Okay. So then let’s get this out of the way so we can do what we have to do.” He walked down the aisle and started to unbutton his shirt.
“I’m smaller than most of you. I’m not Special Forces. I have no rank. I’m not even part of the military. So then who am I?”
He slipped the last button free.
“I’m someone who’s willing to take on the captain and any five of you right here, right now, with an absolute promise that I will do each one of you some very serious bodily damage.”
He turned at the end of the aisle and headed back up, eying them.
“I don’t want to sound arrogant; I just don’t have the time it typically takes to win the kind of respect needed for a mission like this one. Do I have any takers?”
Nothing. A few awkward smirks.
He peeled his shirt down to his waist and faced them at the front again. Although normal aging and other physical events didn’t transfer between his two realities, blood did. And wounds. And the direct effects of those wounds. Kara had examined them, awed by the graphic change to his body, literally overnight. Twenty-three scars.
He saw them take in the numerous Horde scars that marked his chest. A few of the smirks changed to admiration. Some wanted to try him; he could see it in their eyes, an encouraging sign. If things got hairy, he would depend on these more than the others. He continued before they could speak.
“Good. We wouldn’t want to bloody the walls of this room anyway. The reason I’ve been selected by the president of the United States to lead this mission is because no one else alive qualifies in the same way I do for reasons you’ll never know. But believe this: The success or failure of this mission will send shock waves around the world. We must succeed, and for that you must trust me. Understood? Captain?”
Seven hours later, Thomas was on a night flight across the Pacific with Captain Johnson and his team and enough high-tech hardware to sink a small yacht. The transport was a Globemaster C-17, flying at mach point seven, loaded with electronic surveillance equipment. Their flight would last ten hours with three in-flight refuelings.
They still weren’t sure what to make of him—big words and a few scars didn’t amount to a hill of beans when you got right down to it. And honestly, he wasn’t sure about them. What he wouldn’t give for Mikil or William at his side.
They would soon find out just who was who.
Thomas reclined in the seat farthest to the back and let the soft roar of the engines lull him into sleep. Into dreams.
14
QURONG STORMED into the dining room, ignoring the pain that flared through his flesh. “Show me his body!”
They’d already pulled the general from the keg of water and laid him on the floor. For a moment Qurong panicked. He’d been with the general just last night, before he’d been killed. The only comfort in this terrible murder was the discovery that a knife, not the water, had ended his life.
“Who did this?” he screamed. “Who!”
The flap snapped open and Woref, head of military intelligence, walked in. “It was the Forest Guard,” he said.
Under any other circumstance, Qurong would have dismissed the claim. The very idea that the Forest Guard had been in his own camp was outrageous. But Woref made the claim as if reporting on a well-known fact.
Still, he couldn’t digest it. “How?”
“We’ve taken a confession from one of the servants. Two of them entered through the wall in their quarters. She said that they came for the Books of Histories.”
The revelation drained blood from his face. Not because he cared so much for the symbolic relics, although he did, but because of where the Books were kept. His religion was one thing; his life was another altogether.
Qurong strode for his bedchamber.
“There’s more, sir.” Woref followed him. “We have just received word from a scout that there is a small camp of Forest Guard just three miles to the east.”
So then it was true. He walked through the atrium. “Drown the guard on duty last night,” he snapped.
The two chests sat where they always did, encircled by the six candlesticks. “Open it,” he told Woref.
Few had ever entered the small room, and he doubted that Woref had ever been here. But he knew the trunks well enough; he’d been responsible for their construction nearly ten years ago. The rest of the Books—thousands of them—were in hiding, but he kept these two trunks with him at all times for the aura of mystery they lent him, if not for any tangible power.
None of them could read the Books—they seemed to be written in a language that none of his people could read. Rumor had it that the Forest People could read the words easily enough, but this was the wagging of stupid tongues. How could the Forest People read what none of them had set eyes on?
“The leather has been cut,” Woref said, inspecting the straps on either side. “They were in here.”
The moment they opened the lid, Qurong knew that someone had been in his bedchamber. The dust on the Books was smeared.
Qurong swept the curtain aside and walked out. Air. He needed more air.
“But they didn’t kill me.”
“Then they were only after the Books,” Woref said.
“And plan to return now that they know we have them?”
“But why would they come after these relics when they could have . . .” Woref didn’t finish the thought.
“It’s Thomas,” Qurong said. Yes, of course it was! Only Thomas would place such value on the Books.
“We have the tenth division south of the—”
“How many of the Guard are in this camp?”
“A dozen. No more.”
“Send word immediately. To the tenth division south of the canyons. Tell them to cut off any escape. How long before they could be in place?”
“They have to move a thousand men. Two hours.”
“Then in two hours we move in. With any luck we may actually have that dog in a noose.”
“And if it is Thomas, would killing him now jeopardize the capture of the forests?” Woref asked.
He ignored Woref ’s question. There was no secret about the general’s interest in securing the forests. Woref was to be given Qurong’s daughter, Chelise, in marriage upon the completion of that task. All had their prizes waiting, and Woref ’s would be the object of his unrequited obsession. But Qurong was no longer quite sure about the wisdom of his agreement to turn Chelise over to this beast.
Qurong walked to a basin of morst, a powdery white mixture of starch and ground limestone, dipped his fingers in, and patted his face. The stuff provided some comfort by drying any sweat on the skin’s surface. Any kind of moisture, including sweat, increased the pain.
“How long before the main army from the Southern Forest reaches us?” Qurong asked.
“Today. Perhaps hours. Maybe we should wait until he gets here.”
“Is he issuing the orders now? He may have come up with this plan, but as I was last aware, I am still in charge.”
“Yes, of course, your excellence. Forgive me.”
“If we can kill Thomas, the Forest People will be even less likely to learn of our plans. They still don’t know about the fourth army on the far side of their forest. Their firebombs will only go so far
against four hundred thousand men.”
“They do have other capable leaders. Mikil. William. And they may know more than we think they know.”
“None of them compares to Thomas! You will see, without him they are lost. Send the word: Cut them off! Have the rest of our men begin to break camp as if we are leaving for the deep desert. I swear, if Thomas of Hunter is among them, he will not live out this day.”
A gentle word on the wind woke him. Thomas was falling asleep on the transport plane, but he was also waking, here in the desert, with these words in his ear.
“They’re moving.”
Thomas sat up. Mikil squatted on one leg.
“It’s not a war assembly—they’re packing the horses. My guess is back into the desert.”
Thomas scrambled up, hurried to the top of the dune, took the eyeglass from William, and peered down. They couldn’t see the whole camp; the back end was hidden by a slight rise in the desert. But as far as he could see, the Scabs were slowly loading down their carts and horses.
Rachelle ran up the slope. “Thomas!”
He rolled on his back and sat up. “Did you dream?”
She glanced at William as if to say, Not here.
“William, tell the others to prepare to follow the army into the desert,” Thomas ordered.
“Sir—”
“How can you possibly go after them now?” Rachelle demanded. “The Gathering is in two days!”
“We have to get the Books!”
She glanced at William again.
“William, tell the others.”
“She’s right. If we follow them out for a day, it will add another day to our journey home. We’ll miss the Gathering.”
“Not at the rate these slugs travel. And I think Elyon will understand us missing the Gathering if we are busy destroying his enemies.”
“We’re stealing books, not destroying the enemy,” William said.
“We will destroy the enemy with the Books, you muscle-head!”
“How?”
“Just tell them.”
William ran down the dune.
“What happened?” Rachelle asked.
“Did you dream?” he demanded.
“No. Not about the histories. But you did. What happened?”
He stood. “You were right; there is a mountain called Cyclops in Indonesia. Something happened that allowed you to dream.”
“Then you’re going after Monique?”
“We’re on our way now.”
“Then let the Books of Histories go. It’s too dangerous! You can stop the virus with Monique’s help.”
“And what if we can’t rescue Monique? What if she can’t stop the virus? The Books may be able to tell us what we need to know to stop Svensson! The rest can’t understand that, but you have to.”
She started back down the dune, and he hurried to catch her.
“Rachelle, please, listen to me. You have to go back. I’ll send two of my men with Suzan to take you safely—”
“And why should I go if you’re out here risking your neck in the desert?”
“Because if anything happens to you out here, Monique might die! Don’t you see? We can’t risk any harm coming to you. And what about our children?”
“And what about you, Thomas? What happens to Monique or me or the forest or the earth if something happens to you? Our children are in good hands; don’t patronize me.”
He caught her arm and pulled her around. “Listen to me!”
She swallowed and gazed over his shoulder at the horizon.
“I love you more than life itself,” he said. “For fifteen years I’ve been fighting off these beasts. Nothing will happen to me now, I swear it. Not here. It’s there that worries me. We have to stop the virus, and for that we need the Books of Histories.”
Her eyes were paling. She’d bathed last night, but only with a rag and some water from the canteens.
“Please, my love. I beg you.”
She sighed and closed her eyes.
“You know that I’m right,” he said.
“Okay. But promise me you won’t let the disease take you.”
“Leave your extra water.”
“I will.”
They stood in silence. The others were casting curious glances up the dune.
Rachelle leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Please come back in time for the Gathering.”
“I will.”
She turned and walked toward her horse.
Thomas lay on the crest of the dune, watching with the other seven who’d remained behind. Their horses waited behind them, impatient in the rising heat. They’d scavenged as much water as they dared from the four who’d left two hours earlier, enough to keep them for two more days if they were careful. William and Suzan had gone back with Rachelle.
“Is it just my imagination, or are they moving slowly?” Mikil asked.
“They’re Scabs. What do you expect?” someone said.
“If they cut out half of all that baggage, they could move twice as fast,” she said. “It’s no wonder they march so slow.”
Thomas scanned the horizon. A tall hill rose to their right. Far beyond this hill lay the Southern Forest, where Jamous had been delivered by Justin, who brokered a peace with the Scabs.
The words he’d heard the night before ran through his mind. We’ll speak about peace and they will listen because they must, Qurong had said. By the time we work the betrayal with him, it will be too late.
Who was him? Martyn? No, Qurong had been speaking to the general, who was now dead. Perhaps Justin, but Thomas couldn’t accept that. His former lieutenant may have gone off the deep end, but he would never conspire against his own people.
Or would he?
“Sir, there’s some movement.”
He refocused down the hill. A line of horses had emerged over the distant rise and were headed toward them.
Then another.
Not just two lines of horses. A division, at least, riding at a gallop toward them. Thomas felt his muscles tighten.
“Sir . . .”
“They know,” he said. “They know we’re here!”
“Then we leave,” Mikil said. “We can outrun them without a sweat.”
“And the Books?”
“I think that the Books are, for the moment, history,” she said. “No pun intended.”
“Sir, behind!”
The voice had come from the Guard at the end of the line. Thomas whipped around. Another line of horses was just now edging over the dunes to the east, between them and the forest. A thousand, at least.
It was a trap.
Thomas plunged down the hill. “To the north, hurry!”
He reached his horse first, grabbed the pommel, and kicked the steed before his seat touched the saddle. “Hiyaa!”
The animal bolted. Behind him the other horses snorted and pounded sand.
The army on their left marched into clear view now, a long line that stretched farther than he’d first thought. While he and his men had been watching the breaking camp, the Horde had circled behind. Or worse, this army had been camped to the east or south and had been summoned.
They were now flanked on the east and the west. Surely the Horde knew that they would simply ride north out of the trap. Unless—
He saw the warriors directly ahead. How many? Too many to count, cutting off their escape.
Thomas pulled back on his reins, pitching his horse into a steep rear. Three of his men thundered past him.
“Back!”
They saw the Horde and pulled up.
Thomas jerked his horse around. “South!”
But he’d just laid into the wind when he saw what he feared he would see. The dunes to the south swelled with yet another division.
He veered to his left and plowed up the same dune they’d first hidden behind. There was no sense running blind. He had to see what was happening, and for that he needed elevation.
They bro
ught their horses to stomping fits atop the dune. From here their predicament became abundantly clear. Scabs pounded toward them from every direction. Thomas turned his horse, looking for a break in their ranks, but each time he saw one, it closed.
They had been outwitted by Qurong.
Thomas took quick stock. He’d been in too many close scrapes to panic, too many close battles to consider defeat. But he’d never been eight against so many.
There was no way to fight their way out. Mikil had drawn her sword, but this wasn’t a matter of swords. They’d been beaten by a mind, and now they could only win with their own.
These thoughts came over Thomas like a single pounding wave.
But the thoughts that mattered—the ones suggesting a sane course of action—didn’t follow in its wake. The sea had gone silent.
Not even his dreams could help now. They could knock him out and he could dream, and they could wake him up in a matter of seconds, but to what end?
Rachelle’s words of warning spoke tenderly in his ear. She hadn’t used a sweet voice, but now any thought of Rachelle could only be tender.
I am so sorry, my love.
He touched the book that he’d strapped tightly to his waist under his tunic. Maybe he could use it as leverage. Buy time. To what end, he had no clue, but he had to do something. Thomas yanked the book out and thrust it over his head. He stood in his stirrups and screamed at the sky.
“The Books of Histories! I have a Book of History!”
The Horde did not seem impressed. Of course, they hadn’t heard him yet.
He released the reins, stood tall with knees tight against the horse, and galloped in a small circle around his men, right hand lifted high with the book between his fingers.
“I have the Books! I have a Book of History!” he cried.
When the circle of warriors reached the dunes surrounding his, they pulled up. Five thousand at least, seated on sweating horses in a huge circle many deep. The sand had turned into men. Scabs.
Perhaps their hesitation was simply a matter of who was willing to die and who wanted to live. They knew that the first few to reach the Forest Guard would die. Maybe hundreds before they overpowered Thomas of Hunter and his warriors.
