by Ted Dekker
The man nodded vigorously.
Thomas walked around him and looked into his eyes. They’d crossed the desert in less than a day and then rested five miles from the city before finding their messenger, a lone sentry who’d been posted on the main road leading in from the west. His white face shone in early morning moonlight.
“We aren’t going to hurt you, man,” Thomas said. He lifted his hands. “See, no sword. Mikil has a blade, but really it’s mostly for show. We only need a favor from you. Do we have your attention?”
The guard didn’t move.
“What’s your name?”
“Albertus,” the man whispered.
“Good. If you don’t do what we ask, I’ll know what to tell Qurong. My name is Thomas of Hunter. You’ve heard of me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you’ll go straight to the castle, wake Qurong, and deliver a message. Tell him that I will turn myself in for the twenty-four albinos he’s captured. Bring them to the orchard two miles west of the Valley of Tuhan and I will give myself up. Mikil will take the albinos, and Qurong can have me in their place. Do you understand?”
The guard had settled. “You in exchange for the others they brought in.”
“Yes. When did they arrive?”
“Last night.”
“They are in the dungeons?”
“Yes. And the guard has been increased.”
Thomas glanced at Mikil. They’d expected as much. Any attempted rescue would be a different matter this time.
“We’ll be watching. Tell Qurong not to think he can outwit us. A fair exchange or nothing. I want them on horses.” He nodded at Mikil. “Release him.”
Mikil let the man go. He rubbed his neck and stepped away.
“Ride, man.”
“If I leave my post—”
“Qurong will give you a reward for this, you fool! You’re delivering his enemy. Now ride!”
The guard ran to his horse, mounted quickly, and rode into the night.
“Now what?” Mikil asked.
“Now we wait at the orchard.”
The tribe had fallen for his ploy so easily that Woref had delayed his attack for several hours. But the camp slept in perfect peace, unsuspecting of another assault so soon.
His earlier instructions had been very pointed: kill only a few, capture as many as you can, and leave the rest alive with the message. Do not pursue them. Take the captives to the city, but wait for me with a full division.
As he’d hoped, the albinos had assumed that the Horde had taken what they’d come for.
Wrong. So very wrong.
Woref had arrived midday. He knew the tribe would call Thomas of Hunter in immediately. He knew that Chelise would be with Thomas. The fact that Thomas had left to rescue the twenty-four albinos in the city was now of no consequence. Woref would soon have the one prize he desired.
He closed his eyes and rolled his neck. He could almost taste her skin on his tongue now. A coppery taste. Like blood. Blood lust. Teeleh would want to see her tonight, he thought. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he fully expected the creature to gloat. Woref shivered with anticipation.
Odd how his passions and those of the winged serpent had somehow become one. He was complicit with Teeleh; he accepted that now. But he was serving his own interests. Frankly, he wasn’t sure who was serving whom. When he became the supreme leader of the Horde, he would need the kind of power Teeleh could give him.
But first . . .
He opened his eyes and stared into the night. First he would possess the firstborn’s daughter. He would possess her and he would ravage her. She would love him. If he had to beat her love from her with his fist, she would love him. He would have to be subtle at first, naturally. Teeleh was as much about subtlety as he was about brute force. Patience. But in the end she would be his and his alone.
Woref turned to the captain. “If a single one of these albinos is killed, I will drown the man who does it. They understand that? Our objective here is to liberate Qurong’s daughter. We can’t risk killing her with a stray arrow.”
“And afterward?”
“I’ll decide.”
He looked down at the camp again. She was in the third tent from the left. Unless she’d moved during the night, which was unlikely but possible. His men had been known to miss more than he cared to admit.
“They are in position?”
“We have a ring around the camp. There is no possible escape.”
“I’ve heard those words before.”
“This time I’m sure.”
Woref grunted. “After me.”
He dropped over the ledge and approached the line of men who lay in wait along the canyon floor. They’d painted their faces black, and in their dark battle dress they looked like creatures of the night. The Horde rarely attacked at night because of their fear of Shataiki. Odd, all things considered. But the black bats were too busy preying on the minds in the city to wander out into these canyons.
Woref dropped to one knee at the front of the line and studied the tents. Not a stir. All that remained was to draw the noose tight enough to prevent escape.
“Slowly.”
He stood and stepped toward the camp. High on his right, the captain gave the signal to the rest of the ring. Cautiously, so that their boots would make little sound on the sand, six hundred warriors closed in on the tribe.
Woref stopped twenty yards from the first tent and raised his hand.
Not a sound. His heart pounded. The warriors on the far side of the camp had taken a signal and stopped with him. Even if the albinos saw them now, their fate was sealed.
The third tent. His white whore was there, sleeping in an albino’s tent. Tonight she would learn the meaning of respect. Tonight a whole new world would be opened up to her. His world.
Woref grabbed a tall sickle from the warrior behind him. “Stay,” he ordered softly.
He walked deliberately toward the camp, leaving his men behind. When he reached the third tent, he spread his legs, lifted the sickle, and swung it through the edge of the canvas. The blade sliced through the fabric and the center pole as if they were made of paper. He grabbed the col-lapsing wall and ripped it aside.
There lay a woman, eyes still closed. A Scab. His whore.
Woref reached down, took a fistful of her hair, and jerked her off the ground. She woke with a scream, eyes wide in terror.
“That’s it, dear wife. Let the world know your pleasure.”
Chelise grabbed at his hands futilely. Her wails shattered the still night. Tent flaps flew open, and albinos stumbled out like rats from their dens.
The Horde army didn’t move.
Woref dragged Chelise to the edge of the camp, hauled her up so she could stand, and spun back. The albinos were already in full motion, scurrying for an escape. Let them. They would run into warriors within a few strides.
“No one takes what is mine!” he shouted. “No one!”
“Johan, the eastern route is blocked,” a voice cried.
Martyn?
His warriors were still awaiting his signal—to kill or not to kill.
Woref spun Chelise around and clubbed her on the temple with his left hand. Her wails fell quiet and she sagged. He released her hair and let her fall in a pile.
“Martyn!” His voice rang through the canyon. “Martyn steps forward or I will kill every soul.”
“We don’t need your threats to motivate us,” Martyn said, walking in from Woref ’s left. “You’ve been threatening us for a year already.”
Martyn looked odd without his white eyes and skin. Puny. Sickly.
“This is the mighty general? You look ridiculous, my old friend.”
“And you look like you could use a good bath.”
Woref wasn’t sure what to make of the man. The dark woman they’d taken captive earlier stepped up beside Martyn. His fortune was far greater than he could have hoped for. In one night he would claim his bride and slaughter Johan, leaving Thom
as to weep on his own.
“I’ve reclaimed what is mine, and now I will take pleasure in watching you die.”
He lifted his hand.
“My lord, I demand an audience.” A tall albino stepped forward. Another one of the five they’d captured a few days earlier. Fear danced in his eyes.
“You’re not in a position to demand anything.”
“Then I beg. You will thank me.”
Woref lowered his hand. “And you are . . . ?”
“William. I am a council member, and I have authority in the Circle.”
“What are you up to?” Martyn demanded of the albino.
The one named William lifted his hand to silence Martyn. Interesting. What kind of man would Martyn both object to and respect with his silence?
“Then speak.”
“Alone. We aren’t people of violence; there’s no danger from me.”
Woref grabbed Chelise by her arm and dragged her to the line of warriors. “Watch her.” The tall albino met him to one side.
“Speak.”
William spoke in a low voice. “I can assure you, General, that I argued in the strongest possible terms against this madness. Thomas has endangered the entire Circle, and now we will pay with our lives. You must believe me when I say not all among the Circle are so antagonistic as Thomas.”
“You’re begging for your life? I have no time for this.”
“I’m giving you my motive for delivering Thomas of Hunter to you.”
“You can deliver him to me how?”
“I know where he is and where he will be tomorrow. Let us live and I will go with you.”
“Your word against the life of Martyn. Am I a fool?”
“You know as well as I do that we’re bound by our word in the Circle. Consider my motive. Since the death of his wife, Thomas has been a detriment to us all.”
“Then you would betray your own leader?”
“He’s betrayed us! If I’m wrong, then you can kill me. Would I give my life for a man I despise?”
Woref considered the man’s argument. He had the look of a despairing man, given to deception, perhaps. But who was he betraying?
The tribe was looking at them in silence. Powerless.
“I’ll kill Martyn and take you,” Woref said.
“No. Then kill us all. Johan is a shadow of the great general you once knew. Let him live out his puny life. Take me and I will deliver Thomas, who’s the only threat among the Circle.”
“Where is he?”
“Near the city, planning another rescue.”
Woref turned toward the captain. “Put this man in chains. The rest live. Keep the army here until morning. Make sure none of them leaves this canyon; I want no pursuit.”
He’d come for Chelise. If he could also take Thomas, the last of Qurong’s reservations about his general would be gone.
His mind turned toward the unconscious form on the ground. The woman who had brought him so much grief. The one he loved.
His only regret was that he would have to exercise restraint for the time being. Bringing a battered daughter home to her father would not do. But there were always other ways.
He glanced back at the albino and saw that he was staring at Johan. He wasn’t sure if it was a look of betrayal or one of regret. They would know soon enough.
“So soon!” Mikil said, gazing down from her perch in the tree. The sun had just risen when the long line of albinos appeared at the edge of the field with a guard for each. A second row of guards marched into the field on either side.
“What did I tell you?” Thomas said. “Qurong is no fool. He suspects that Chelise will be compelled by my captivity as much as the Circle is. Do you see Woref?”
“No. There’s a general, but I don’t think it’s Woref.”
“You’d think he would handle this himself.” Thomas looked back at the trees behind them. “The way’s clear?”
“There’s no way they could have set a trap this soon. Give me ten minutes on them and we’re free.” Mikil gripped his shoulder. “You’re sure about this, Thomas? It’s bothering me.”
“And you’re not bothered by their deaths?” He nodded at the albinos, who now sat on their horses in a long line, waiting for the next move. “Just make sure that nothing happens to Chelise. Without her my life is worthless.”
“Johan would hogtie her himself if he thought she might leave.”
“Not like that. If she left me for Woref now, I think I’d rather be dead. And she still has the disease, Mikil. I don’t trust her mind.”
“But you trust her heart.”
“I’m staking my life on her heart.”
They’d developed a plan for getting Thomas out—a risky move involving an exchange for Chelise in the desert—but it would require her cooperation.
“Elyon’s strength, my friend.” He clasped her arm.
“Be careful, Thomas.”
“I will.”
“If we get through this, I would like to dream with you. Become Kara.”
“If Kara lives, I think she would like that.”
Thomas lowered himself to one of the horses, took a deep breath, and walked out into the open field beside the apple trees.
“We meet halfway,” he yelled.
They saw him and held a brief discussion. The general Mikil had seen called out to him. “Slowly. No tricks. We have men on either side.”
Thomas nudged his horse and walked toward the line. The albinos began to move forward.
He passed them on the right, less than twenty yards from three archers who had their bows strung. If he bolted now, they would take him easily. He nodded at the albino closest to him, an older woman named Martha. She looked at him with fear in her eyes.
“I’ll be seeing you soon enough, Martha. Be strong.”
“Elyon’s strength,” she said quietly.
And then he was past them and in the hands of the Horde. The tribe members trotted over the field and disappeared into the trees.
“Off the horse!” the general ordered.
Thomas dismounted and let them tie his hands behind his back with a long strap of canvas. “You expect me to walk all the way?”
The general didn’t respond. They tied his horse to two others, pushed him back in the saddle, and led him away.
Thomas rode into the Horde city for the second time in two weeks. Once again he saw the squalor caused by the disease. Once again he tried unsuccessfully to ignore the filth and stench of Scabs who screamed insults at him. Once again he approached the dark dungeon that had once been a great amphitheater built for the expression of ideas and freedom. This time they passed the castle without taking him to Qurong. That would come soon enough.
No fewer than a hundred guards surrounded the dungeon, all armed with bows and sickles. These were no army regulars. They were scarred from battle and scowled with bitter hatred.
The dungeon guard led him down the wet steps and along the same corridor he’d walked before. But they passed his old cell and took him down a second flight of stairs to a lower level lit only by torches. They shoved him into a small cell, slammed the gate shut, and left him in total darkness.
Thomas collapsed in the corner, exhausted. There was nothing to do now but wait.
And dream.
35
The only jump Thomas had ever executed was more of a cannon shot than a one-two-three leap, and that one out the back of a military transport that had been cut in half by a missile two weeks earlier. This time he would buddy-jump with Major Scott MacTiernan, Army Ranger.
The French defenses weren’t accustomed to engaging enemy aircraft over their soil—the sudden shift in power was only two weeks old, and the military was being coerced. All of this played into the Americans’ hands. The C-2A Greyhound cargo plane came off the USS Nimitz five hundred miles off the coast of Portugal, and flew south over Spain and then up western France, hugging the land below radar. As soon as they neared the drop point, the pilot pitched th
e nose up and let the plane claw for the dark skies.
Air defenses painted them at two thousand feet.
“You got ten seconds,” the master snapped. They’d estimated the window based on the time it would take the French radar to confirm and respond to the sudden blip on their screens. The parachute was made of a fabric that would give them little if any signature, and even so, they wouldn’t be in the air long enough to cause alarm.
“Remember, relax,” MacTiernan said, facing the wind over Thomas’s shoulder. He checked the straps that lashed Thomas to his chest. “On three.”
Thomas fell into the darkness, eyes wide behind the goggles. The air-craft’s roar was immediately replaced by the rush of wind beating his ears. He was along for the ride—a very short ride, the major had warned.
MacTiernan pulled the cord. The chute tugged them skyward. MacTiernan guided them in with night vision. The ground was a mixture of black swaths, which Thomas assumed were forest, and slightly lighter fields. They were on top of them, then drifting into a field.
“Watch your legs! Coming up in five. Run with me, baby! Hit the ground running!”
They feathered in for a landing, hit hard, and stumbled forward. Silence.
The parachute flapped once as it folded in on itself and settled to the ground. Thomas shrugged off the harness and checked his gear. Black pants with a knife strapped to one thigh and a nine-millimeter semi-automatic strapped to the other. Canteen, compass, radio with ahoming device that could be picked up from Cheyenne Mountain. Black T-shirt, black ski cap, black sweater wrapped around his waist. Night-vision goggles.
The prospect of using a weapon gave him mixed feelings, but he wasn’t sure that he was meant to be a pacifist here in this reality. He still wasn’t sure what he felt about a whole slew of issues here, particularly religious issues. He wasn’t a man of the cloth, for crying out loud. He was a man deeply affected by his dreams of another reality, but in his short few weeks of tripping between the worlds, he hadn’t had the time to unravel theology here as he had there. He might never have the time.
“One piece?” MacTiernan was kneeling, penlight on a small map, compass in hand.
“Looks like it,” Thomas said. “Where do you put us?”
