by Ted Dekker
“Is that your son?” Ba’al asked, looking at Samuel.
“I see you’ve taken to mutilating your foreheads,” Thomas said. “The mark of your beast, is that it?”
The white wraith in human form named Ba’al, who was the wickedest of all Horde, raised his hand and extended a thin finger to the horizon. “From the east the pale one will bring peace and command the sky. He will purge the land with a river of blood in the valley of Miggdon. We will offer ourselves to him on that day of reckoning. The question is, will you?”
“No. We will not. We submit to Elyon and to no one else.”
The priest eyed him. His mouth was paper thin, scarcely more than flaps of white flesh to keep the bugs from his teeth. He raised one hand by his head and snapped fingers so delicate Thomas wondered how the snap alone didn’t break them.
“We shall see, albino.”
Two of the priests hurried over to one of the bull-drawn carts. While one unhitched the beast, the other pulled a large, white silk blanket from the chest. Then a silver goblet.
The rest watched, bare of emotion, as the two priests urged the bull forward, tied it to one of four bronze rings on the altar, and draped the white blanket over the beast’s back. One of them strapped a ruby-colored cushion on top. A saddle. The priests hurried back to their posts, bells jangling with the shuffle of their feet. The whole operation took two dozen seconds, no more.
What Ba’al could possibly mean to demonstrate by saddling up a bull was beyond Thomas, but the man’s continuous, unwavering stare didn’t sit well with him.
“Do you like the sight of blood, Thomas?” Ba’al asked.
“Not particularly.” Dear Elyon, do not keep your face hidden now, not now. The whole world is watching, and I’m powerless. Then, as an afterthought: Give the word and I will take this man’s head from his shoulders for you.
“I suggest you get used to it, albino. Because our god demands blood. Pools of blood. Rivers of blood. Blood from the necks of our own.”
“Your god, Teeleh”—Thomas spat to one side—“may be a blood-thirsty—” Ba’al moved while Thomas spoke, snatching a hidden sword from his back, slashing down with lightning speed. The blade struck the bull on its spine, just above the shoulder blades, and cut cleanly through its neck.
Samuel’s sword scraped its scabbard as he withdrew it.
The bull’s head dropped from its torso and landed on the earth with a dull thump. For a long moment, the animal stood still, unaware of the blood that pumped from its arteries onto the ground. Then it took a half step and collapsed.
A soft moan broke from the two hundred priests, now swaying in their black robes. The slaying happened so quickly that Thomas didn’t think to react.
Ba’al spread his arms wide and spoke to the darkening sky. “Accept my offering, Teeleh, one and true god of all that lives and breathes, dragon of the sky. May your vengeance find fulfillment through my hands.”
He lowered his head and glared at Thomas. “Tell your friends to drop their weapons.”
The moans ceased.
“Not for you. Not for any Scab,” Samuel spat.
Ba’al dropped his own blade. “Tell him.”
“Drop it, Samuel.”
“Father—”
“All of you, drop your weapons!”
They weren’t here for battle or to defend themselves. It took a few seconds, but Thomas heard the blades fall. Qurong sat on his horse, staring at the dead bull as two priests hurried in and collected the weapons from the ground. The Throaters closed off any avenue of escape, leaving only their rear unguarded.
“This is only a bull, not enough to satiate the true god,” Ba’al said. “The stakes here are far too great for an ordinary display of loyalty.” He pointed to his gathered faithful. “I will put the life of Teeleh’s loyal subjects up against the life of only one albino. We will see which one the true god delivers.”
The implications ran through Thomas’s chest like a blade. His own life against these swaying witches. His mind stalled at the thought. What was the priest suggesting, that he lie on the altar and take the blade the way the bull had?
But he’d come here to either die or be saved. Any further hesitation would only make a mockery of all he stood for.
“Against your witches,” Thomas said, “and you. Agreed.”
Ba’al’s eyes shifted over Thomas’s right shoulder. “We will all bleed and trust our master to show his power as he has in the past. All of them. And then your son. And then me.”
Thomas froze. “Never! Myself, not my son.”
“You don’t trust your god to deliver even this one albino? Is your son beyond Elyon’s reach?”
“I decide for me, not for my son.” Thomas spoke the words, but his mind was crying out to Elyon already. He had been tricked. Pushed into a corner. He saw the trap, but failing to see a way to break free, his mind cried out. Then his lips, in a barely audible whisper. “Elyon . . . Elyon, I beg you . . .”
“I haven’t asked your son about his faith in this God you serve,” Ba’al said. “I’m asking if you have the faith to put his life in your God’s hands.”
Thomas felt his lifelines slipping. He’d expected any scenario but this. How could he offer up his own son?
“Do you believe Elyon will save your son?”
The cool night air had gone frigid.
“Elyon has no limits.”
“Father—”
“And if your son doesn’t agree?” Ba’al cut in. “Would that weaken your faith? Would you be frightened that Teeleh would steal your child the way you stole Qurong’s child?”
Chelise. Qurong sat with jaw fixed.
“Listen to me, you skinny little witch,” Thomas bit off. “My son, like Chelise, decides for himself whether he lives or dies. He’s not your bull to slaughter.”
“I thought Elyon and Teeleh were to decide who would live or die. I’m only asking if you, not your son, will give Elyon the opportunity to decide.”
Thomas’s face flushed with indignation. But he truly was ensnared by this pathetic wretch’s challenge. If he delayed in giving his consent, it would only show his doubt. He’d come to prove his faith in Elyon, and already he was flapping around like a wounded chicken.
But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He couldn’t stand here and— Do you want to swim with me?
Thomas’s pulse spiked.
Swim in my waters, Thomas.
The distant voice whispered. The same voice he’d heard on occasion in the deepest part of Elyon’s waters. A boy’s voice, so tender, full of mischief and life. Elyon . . .
“What did I tell you, my lord?” Ba’al said to Qurong. “I’ve handed you a victory with the slaying of one bull. The great Thomas of Hunter doesn’t have—”
“I accept your challenge,” Thomas snapped. “I would offer my son. But I can’t speak for him.”
“No. But I can.” Ba’al nodded.
Thomas twisted on his horse and felt the blood drain from his face. The Throaters had closed the gaps between the boulders fifty yards behind Mikil, Jamous, and Samuel. None of them had any weapons.
There was no escape, not even for a fighter of Samuel’s caliber.
Ba’al was going to bleed his son.
“Come, my master,” Ba’al whispered in a trembling voice. “Enter your servant.”
Six Throaters rode in from the left, swords drawn. They didn’t hesitate as they would have if facing an armed warrior of the Guard, but stormed straight toward Samuel, slamming into his horse. One of them whipped a long chain around his son’s throat and tugged.
“Father . . .”
“Let him go! Release him!” Thomas spurred his horse into the fray, took the butt of a sword on his chin and blindly struck out with a fist. He felt his knuckles sink into spongy Scab flesh. The warrior he’d hit grunted and swung his spear like a stick. It glanced off Thomas’s shoulder.
Panic joined his desperation. Even if there was a chance to overpow
er the Throaters, he would betray his own challenge by attempting anything so foolish.
The sound of a brutal blow to Samuel’s flesh made him recoil. A grunt. Then silence. They’d dragged Samuel to the ground and knocked him out.
Thomas spun back to Ba’al, swallowing against the dread rising in his gut. “This wasn’t my challenge!”
The dark priest was staring at the dusk sky, hands raised and trembling. He jerked his head down. “It is mine.”
Whimpers and murmuring spread through Ba’al’s priests, their eyes on the darkening sky. Thomas looked up.
At first glance it appeared as if a huge black cloud had drifted over the high place and was slowly rotating—a hurricane forming several miles over their heads.
But this wasn’t a cloud, Thomas saw. For the first time in many years, the Shataiki were showing themselves. Hundreds of thousands of the black beasts peered down with red eyes, having gathered to watch the butchery.
Elyon . . . Dear Elyon, help us . . .
10
CHELISE PULLED her mount up with a sharp tug, digging her heels into the leather stirrups. She threw her weight back to compensate for the sudden stop. The pale mare, bred to blend into the desert, snorted and tossed its head, protesting the bronze bit that dug into its flesh.
The sky . . . there was something wrong in the sky.
“What?” Marie cried, whipping her head around as she shot past. She forced her horse to a tramping halt. “What is it?”
“I . . .” Chelise stared at the black cloud on the distant darkening horizon. Something about the sight spread a chill over her skull. “I . . .”
Marie followed her eyes and gazed with her. “What is it? A cloud?”
“It’s moving.”
“So clouds move. What’s gotten into you?”
“Over the high place, as if—”
“Shataiki,” Marie whispered.
The horses were breathing hard from their run, but this one word uttered by Marie felt like a kick to Chelise’s gut. She hadn’t put her finger on it, but now that Marie had labeled the huge, swirling vortex, the dreadful certainty that her daughter was right wrapped its claws around her throat.
Shataiki.
“That’s impossible,” she finally managed.
Marie twisted in her saddle. “It’s over the high place, Ba’al Bek.”
“But . . . so Qurong accepted Thomas’s challenge?”
Marie turned her jittery mount back to Chelise, casting an eye at the Shataiki. “Unless they’ve gathered in defiance of Thomas’s presence on their sacred turf. He would be the first albino to enter the cursed place of worship.”
“But no one’s seen the Shataiki for years. Have you ever seen one?”
“I may have. At one time I thought I had, but it could just as easily have been a shadow. This is . . .” Marie couldn’t seem to form her thoughts around the idea that they were actually seeing Shataiki. But there could be no doubt. It was a massive cloud of black bats, each the size of a bloodhound if the legends were correct, packed so closely together that they looked from this distance like a solid mass. “So many . . .”
Chelise had finally convinced the council that Qurong and Ba’al would accept Thomas’s challenge only if they intended to double-cross him. She argued that Qurong would never stoop so low in his mind to go with Thomas if he lost the challenge. The only person remotely capable of winning Qurong’s heart was his very own daughter. Chelise.
Marie earned the right to go because she had defended Thomas’s honor by fighting Samuel in Vadal’s place.
They left Jake with Suzan, who complained bitterly that a fighter of her caliber should go with them.
After eight hard hours of riding they were less than halfway there. But they had the fruit; they would not stop.
“We’re not going to make it,” Chelise said. Her heart pounded in her ears. “If they’ve already started this ill-advised game, we’re going to be too late.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything we could do if—”
“Then go home,” Chelise snapped. “It wasn’t my idea that you come.”
“Easy. I’m not second-guessing our decision. I’m just stating the obvious. We don’t stand a chance against that.” She nodded at the cloud of Shataiki, slowly rotating in the dusky sky.
“You’re forgetting about Elyon. You nearly killed your brother for his honor—”
“I would never kill Samuel.”
“—yet you doubt Elyon’s power?”
“If it’s up to Elyon, then why does he need us? He’s got Thomas out there. What good will two more be?”
“Qurong—”
“Can be won by Elyon much more easily than by you,” Marie cut in. Then with less bite: “So it would seem to me.”
“You’re far too much like your father,” Chelise said. “Everyone should take care of themselves, is that it? Your independence is only cute when there’s no real danger.” She kicked her horse, and the beast surged forward. “If Elyon could snap his fingers and win anyone’s heart, the Horde would have flocked to the red lakes long ago,” she cried. “That’s obviously not the way it works.”
Marie urged her mount into a full run and pulled abreast. “I’m not suggesting we don’t go, Mother, but Thomas and I aren’t the only ones who are stubborn. Father knew that your love for Qurong might jeopardize his mission, not to mention your life. I think that cloud only raises the stakes. Don’t do anything rash.”
“Now the youth are giving the advice?”
“I’m not a child! I’m the one who’s here to keep your backside out of trouble.”
“I’m not a fool.”
“No, but love is blind. And you, Mother, are blind when it comes to your father.”
There was some truth to what Marie said. Chelise would give her life to save Qurong, if Elyon required it. But her love for Qurong didn’t make her stupid.
Chelise pushed her mare into a full gallop. “Fine, save my backside. At this rate you’re not going to be given that opportunity, because it’ll all be over by the time we get there.”
She breathed a quick prayer, begging Elyon to keep them all alive until she could show up and make things right. She immediately chided herself for such arrogance.
“How far?” she breathed.
“We can’t push the horses like this all night. Daybreak. At best.”
Thank Elyon they’d brought the healing fruit.
11
THE PRIVATE laboratory had been constructed underground and fortified with reinforced concrete, halfway between Raison Pharmaceutical’s Bangkok laboratories and the mansion on the south lawn. Monique’s reasoning for choosing the location was simple: Any attack on the compound would focus on the buildings, not the grass between them. All critical samples would be stored in the five-thousand-square-foot facility where the most sensitive research was conducted.
They called it Ground Zero, home of some of the world’s most potentially destructive biological materials. Raison Strain B for starters.
Janae swiped her security card through the reader, heard the magnetic locking mechanism disengage, and looked back at Billy. Sweat beaded his forehead. His eyes darted to hers, then back to the metal door.
She pushed it open and walked into the hall. “Close the door behind you. And hurry. Just because it’s midnight doesn’t mean security doesn’t already know my card was used to gain access. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to have instructed them to alert her every time I enter.”
“She’s that distrusting of you?”
“No. Not normally. But you’re here, aren’t you? The redheaded bloodhound who can climb into people’s minds.”
“With the bloodhound who uses her tongue to steal the minds of men,” he said.
“Whatever.” But he was right.
He followed her down the hall, past several doors where supplies were kept. The passage ended at another steel door that again required her card for access. She could hear Billy’s steady b
reathing behind her. He’d questioned her no fewer than a dozen times since she first suggested they call Monique’s bluff by infecting themselves, though his obsession with reaching the Books of History was reason enough for him to follow through. After all, he explained, he’d grown up with them, used them. He might even be responsible for them. He’d been pushed to the outer limits of himself and found nothing more than the blackness he’d come to recognize in his heart.
The fear and horror of a dozen years had turned him into a rag doll at the mercy of that blackness, he’d said, pacing with both hands in his hair. The chance of finally understanding what had turned him into the person he was, however dangerous, was worth the risk of Monique hanging them out to dry. For that matter, maybe he’d only find what he was looking for in death.
But what drove Janae to the same desperation? Nothing Billy could see in her mind. So what was it? He wanted to know. What?
She guessed. “Maybe because I have that same blackness in me. I always have. From the time my father vanished, I’ve hated my life. That same blackness is calling me. You can’t see it in my mind because it’s beyond my mind. I don’t even understand it, but today, for the first time, hearing about the blood and the Books of History, and my own mother’s involvement—I feel alive, Billy. I’ve come back from the dead.”
“And so now you’re willing to risk death again?” he’d challenged.
She turned away. “Mother won’t allow that.”
“But if she does.”
“Then she does. But she won’t. On occasion I may be the child she wishes she never had, but my mother loves me.”
She unlocked the metal door and led Billy into the heart of the facility: a white laboratory blinking with a hundred monitoring lights. The door closed softly behind them, and she gave him a moment to study the room.
A dozen workstations were positioned under fluorescent lights, perfectly ordered with flat touch-screen monitors. Not a pen or piece of paper out of place. Not a single paperclip or piece of lint on the shiny-mirror black floor.
