by Ted Dekker
Thomas’s heart rose into his throat. No one outside this gazebo knew that he would defend the Council in a fight. And there would be a fight. No matter how deaf Ciphus wanted to be at this moment, he could not call this a clear decision. The rules were plain—there could be no doubt.
Ciphus lowered both hands and the people quieted. They all knew what was coming. For a long time the elder just stood still, perhaps taken aback that the crowd was so divided.
“Then we will place the fate of this man in Elyon’s hands,” he said loudly. “I call to the floor our defender, Thomas of Hunter.”
The crowd gasped. Or at least half of it gasped. The southern half, which had decided to claim Justin as their own since he’d delivered their forest a week earlier. They clearly couldn’t see him fighting their Justin.
The other half began to chant his name.
Rachelle’s eyes were dark with fear.
He kissed her cheek. “I taught him; remember that.”
He climbed over the railing, and the people made a way for him down through the bleachers. He gripped his sword at his side and vaulted over the short wall that separated the field from the seats. The walk to the main platform seemed long with all the cheering and with Justin drilling him with a stare.
He stood before Ciphus, who shut down the crowd.
“I request you, Thomas of Hunter, supreme commander of the Forest Guard, to defend our truth against this blasphemy in a fight to the death. Do you accept?”
“I will. But I will seek banishment, not death, for Justin.”
“That is my choice to make, not yours,” Ciphus said.
Thomas had never heard of such a thing.
“I understood that it was my choice,” he said.
“Then you misunderstand the rules. The Council made this rule and now you must abide by it. It will be a fight to the death. The price for this sin is death. I am not willing to consider the living death.”
Thomas thought a moment. It was true that the law required death of anyone who defied Elyon. Banishment was a kind of death, a living death, as Ciphus called it. But now, forced to consider it, he realized there could be a problem with banishing Justin. What if he entered the Horde and gained power under Qurong? What if he then led their armies against the forest? Perhaps death was the wiser choice, though not what he desired.
“Then I accept.” He dipped his head.
“Swords!” Ciphus cried.
A Council member lifted two heavy bronze swords from the floor by his stool and set them on the stage.
“Choose your sword,” Ciphus said.
Thomas glanced at Justin. The warrior watched him with mild interest now. Did the man have a death wish?
Thomas picked up the swords, one in each hand, and walked toward Justin. “Do you have a preference?”
“No.”
Thomas flipped both swords into the air. They turned lazily in unison and stuck into the boards on either side of Justin.
“I insist,” Thomas said. “I don’t want it said that I beat Justin of Southern by picking the better sword.”
The crowd reacted with a rumble of approval.
Justin kept his eyes on Thomas without looking at the swords. He stepped forward, yanked out the one to his right. “Neither would I,” he said, tossing the weapon so that its blade pierced the earth at Thomas’s feet.
Another rumble of approval.
“Fight!” Ciphus yelled. “Fight to the death!”
Thomas plucked the sword out and swung it twice for feel. It was a standard Guard weapon, well balanced and heavy enough to sever a head with one swipe.
Justin put his hand on the sword and waited. Enough of this posturing. The sooner they ended the fight, the better. To know a man in a match of this kind meant watching his eyes. And Thomas didn’t like what he saw in Justin’s eyes. They were too full of life to cut so easily from his shoulders. The man was full of beguiling influence that unnerved him.
He skipped to his left and leaped to the platform, ten feet from Justin. He briefly wondered if the man was simply going to die without a fight, because he hardly shifted.
Thomas lunged and brought the sword around with enough force to cut the man in half.
At the last moment, Justin pulled his sword up and deflected the blow. A horrendous clash filled the arena. It was exactly what Thomas had expected. In the moment when Justin was blocking his blow, he reached out with his left hand and tapped the man on the cheek.
It was a move he’d taught them all as a bit of a joke once. Mikil dubbed it “The Cheek.” What Thomas didn’t expect was the hand that shot out from Justin at precisely the same moment. It tapped his cheek.
The crowd roared and Thomas thought he could hear Mikil’s cry of approval above the din.
He couldn’t help but smile. Good. Very good. Justin smirked. Winked.
Then they went a full round, gripping their swords with both hands. Clash and counterclash, jabbing, sparring, thrusting, moving around the platform—fundamental swordplay to loosen the joints and feel out the opponent. Nothing about the way Justin fought surprised Thomas. He reacted precisely the way Mikil or William or any of his other lieutenants would to each of his attacks.
And he was sure that nothing he did surprised Justin either. That would come later.
They began to add a few of the Marduk moves, feigning, bobbing, weaving, rolling—off the stage to the field, then along one side of the platform and around the perimeter. Back on top of the stage.
“You’re a good man, Thomas,” Justin said too softly for the crowd to hear. “I always liked you. And I still do, very much.”
Their swords clanged again.
“You’ve kept up your skills, I see,” Thomas said. “Killing a few of your Horde friends on the side, are we?”
Justin blocked a blow, and they faced each other in a momentary stall.
“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Be careful.”
Thomas sprinted four steps. It was a classical approach to a vault, but Thomas didn’t vault. He planted his sword as if to flip over it, but instead of going high he swung low.
Justin had already lifted his sword to ward off the expected jab that would come when Thomas catapulted himself over his head. But now Thomas was closer to Justin’s ankles. It would end here, when he took Justin from his feet and followed with his blade.
Thomas swung around his sword, feet first, bracing for the impact of his shin against Justin’s calves.
But suddenly Justin’s calves weren’t there. At the last moment he’d seen the reversal, and although he was completely off balance, he’d managed to launch himself into a backflip. A high somersault off the edge of the platform. Then around in almost perfect form.
He landed on the field, feet spread and hands on his sword, ready for anything.
Thomas saw it all while he swung through his empty kick, and he used his momentum to pivot all the way around into a back handspring, off the platform, into what was called a back-whip.
The full aerial roundhouse move forced an opponent to guard against a lethal heel to his face, but then morphed into a pirouette, one full rotation to bring the sword, not the feet, around with blazing speed.
Thomas executed the move perfectly. Justin misjudged it. But he threw himself backward in time to catch the blade as a glancing blow skipped off his chest.
Instead of continuing into a back handspring, he dropped to his back and rolled in the direction opposite the one in which Thomas’s momentum carried him.
Smart. Very smart. If he’d gone for the back handspring, as most warriors certainly would, Thomas could have carried his own momentum into another direct attack before the man had fully recovered.
The crowd knew it too. Their cries had fallen to silence.
Justin came to his feet in a ready stance, eyes blazing with amusement.
“You should have accepted my promotion two years ago instead of losing your head to the desert,” Thomas said. “You’
re a better warrior than the others.”
“Am I?” Justin straightened, as if this revelation took him off guard. He tossed his sword on the dirt. “Then let me fight you without a sword. The coming battle won’t be won with the sword.”
Thomas stepped forward, sword extended. “Pick up your sword, you fool.”
“And what, kill you?”
Thomas brought his blade to Justin’s neck. The man made no attempt to stop him.
“Kill him!” Ciphus screamed. “To the death!”
“He wants me to kill you.”
“If you can,” Justin said.
“I can. But I won’t.”
They were speaking low. “You deceive the people into thinking there can be peace when at this very moment the Horde is planning a betrayal,” Thomas said.
Justin blinked.
“Pick up your sword!” Thomas yelled for all to hear.
Justin slowly stepped back and to his left. But he ignored his sword and dropped his hands to his sides, stared at Thomas.
Thomas had given the man from Southern enough latitude; now his antics were infuriating. Thomas attacked. He covered the ground between them in three long strides and swung his sword full strength. The blade would cut the man in two without knowing it had hit anything.
But Justin wasn’t there for the sword to hit. Thomas saw the man rolling back to his right, snatching up his sword, and too late he knew that he had been lulled into overcommitting himself to this blow he was already halfway through.
His own words in training screamed through his mind. Never over-commit in close combat!
Yet in anger, he had. He could have killed the man. Now the man might kill him.
With a slower opponent, his error wouldn’t have mattered. But Justin moved as fast as he did. His blow came from behind, the broadside of his sword hitting Thomas squarely on the back.
He landed hard. There was grass in his hands. Both hands. He’d lost his sword.
He threw himself to the right, rolling to his back. A blade pressed against his neck and a knee dropped into his solar plexus. Justin kneeled over him, green eyes blazing, and Thomas knew that he was finished.
The breath seemed to have been sucked from the arena along with his own. He stared into his old lieutenant’s eyes and saw a fierce fire.
Then the man sprang up, backed away, and tossed his sword high into the air. It twirled in the afternoon sun and fell on its side with a dull thump, twenty yards away.
He strode toward the Council and stopped in front of their platform. “Your challenger has been defeated. Elyon has spoken.”
“The match is to the death,” Ciphus said.
“I will not kill him for your sin.”
“Then Elyon has not spoken,” the elder said quietly. “The only reason you are alive now is because Thomas failed to finish. You were defeated first.”
“Was I?”
“This isn’t over,” Ciphus ground out.
“Live!” someone from the crowd shouted. “Let Thomas live!”
A chant began. “Live, live, live, live!”
Thomas pushed himself to his feet, mind spinning. He’d been defeated by Justin in fair combat.
Ciphus clearly wasn’t up to defying the people under such ambiguous circumstances. He let them chant.
Justin turned to the crowd. “I will let him live!” he shouted.
The chant settled and died.
He paced slowly, studying the people. “I will show you now, since I have earned the right, the true way to peace.” Now he was walking toward the slope that rose to the trees at the entrance. “At this very moment the Horde is conspiring to crush you with an army that will make the battles to the south and west seem like childish skirmishes.”
How could Justin know this? And yet Thomas knew that he did. They had to get word to the scouts—search the farthest perimeter.
He spun toward the gazebo, saw Mikil, and motioned for her to make it so. She and William disappeared.
Justin spread his hands out to calm the confused crowd. “Silence! There is only one way to meet this enemy. It is the way of peace, and today I will deliver this peace to you.”
He stopped and motioned to the trees. For a moment, nothing. And then a hooded man stepped out.
A Scab!
Wearing the sash of a general.
Justin had smuggled a general from the Horde into the forest. Ten thousand voices cried out. The rest of the crowd gaped in stunned silence.
The tall, hooded man walked quickly, and Justin met him halfway up the slope. They clasped hands and dipped their heads in greeting. Justin faced the arena and spread his arm in a manner of introduction.
“I bring to you the man with whom I will negotiate peace between the Desert Dwellers and the Forest People.” He paused.
“The mighty general of the Horde, Martyn!”
Martyn! Was it possible? Then who had he killed in Qurong’s tent?
Thomas glanced back at the gazebo. It was already empty. His Guard would not allow this man to leave the village alive. Not now, with this revelation that the Horde was gathering on their exposed flank.
Thomas snatched his sword and ran for the slope. The day had seen enough showmanship. He couldn’t kill Justin now, but this general was another matter.
“I have given him my word that you would not kill him,” Justin said. “His armies are close now and could swarm the forest and wage a battle that would turn the valleys red with blood. But if Elyon’s children all die, then who would be victor?”
The revelation that the Horde was on their doorstep seemed to have tempered the crowd’s nerve. The people were actually listening. Thomas saw William and several of the Guard emerge from the trees at the top of the slope behind Justin. Rachelle was with them.
What was she doing? She had no business with them.
He shoved the thought aside and walked toward Justin and the Scab. The Guard moved down the hill to cut off any possible escape.
Justin stepped up to meet him. “Thomas, I beg you to hear me. I have proven my loyalty to you. Now you must allow me this!”
“You are wrong. He has betrayal in his blood!”
They were both weaponless as far as he could see. Thomas’s men edged down the slope, swords drawn.
Thomas rushed at the general. Justin seized his arm. “Thomas! You don’t know who he is!”
Martyn backed up.
Thomas could see the Scab’s white eyes peering from the shadows of his hood. The rare circle tattooed over the man’s right eye marked him as a druid, confirming the rumors.
“You think my sword can’t draw the blood of the man who has slaughtered ten thousand of my men?” He directed his challenge to Martyn. “Will your magic protect you from a cold blade?”
His men were now only a few paces behind the Scab. Martyn sensed them, glanced back, and stopped. Thomas tore his arm free from Justin’s grip and covered the last few steps. He thrust his sword into the bottom of the general’s hood and held him at point.
He flicked the blade. Martyn didn’t respond to the small cut on his neck. Red blood seeped from the surface wound.
“You think he won’t bleed the way my men have bled? I say we send him back to his Horde in pieces.”
Justin ran past Thomas, grabbed the general’s hood, and yanked it back.
Martyn’s face was ashen. A curving scar ran down his right cheek. He blinked pale eyes in the sudden light. He was hardly human, and yet he was fully human. But there was more.
Thomas knew this man.
His heart crashed in his chest.
Johan.
He yanked his sword back.
Johan? And the scar . . . Why did this scar surprise him?
“Johan,” Justin said.
Thomas saw Rachelle over the man’s shoulder. She was at the crest and she’d heard the words.
“Johan?” she said.
Then she was running. Down the slope. She raced around the general and stared at his exp
osed face.
“Johan? It’s . . . it’s you?”
The general showed no emotion at the sight of his sister. His mind had been taken by the disease, Thomas knew. He hadn’t been killed in battle as they’d all assumed. He’d been lost to the desert and become a Scab three years ago. It was why the Horde’s strategies had become so effective. They were being led by one of the old Forest Guard who had lost his mind to their disease.
Rachelle reached out to him, but he withdrew. She stared at him, grieved. Horrified.
“You must let us go,” Justin said. “It’s the only way.”
William edged closer. “Sir, he’s diseased. We can’t let him—”
“Then wash him!” Rachelle cried.
“You can’t force a man to bathe,” Thomas said. “He is what he chooses to be.”
“He will bathe! Tell them, Johan. You will wash this curse from your skin. You’ll swim in the lake.”
His eyes widened with a momentary flash of fear. “If it is peace you want, I can give you peace.” Thomas recognized the voice, but barely. It was now deeper. Pained. “Otherwise we bring a curse you have never known to this forest.”
William grabbed the man’s cloak and drew back his sword. “Enough of this!”
“Let him go!” Thomas ordered.
“Sir—”
“Release him!”
William let the robe go and stepped back.
“I will not kill my own brother!”
His Guard would never agree to the terms of any peace Justin and Martyn drew up, but a truce might stall the Horde long enough for the Guard to prepare if truly there was an army in the plains.
Behind them, Ciphus was silent. Why?
Thomas faced Justin. “Take him. Broker your peace, but don’t expect me and my men to go along with it. If we see a single Scab within sight of the forest, we will hunt you both down and drain your blood.”
Rachelle gripped his arm. She was trembling.
Martyn replaced his hood and turned. William wouldn’t move.
“Let them go, William.” Then louder. “These two have my personal word of safe passage from our forest. The man who touches them will face me.”
His men parted.
Justin and Martyn, the mighty general of the Horde whose name was also Johan, walked up the slope into the trees and vanished.
