Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  © 2018 by Ronie Kendig

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1475-8

  Interlude chapter titles taken from the poem “Goliath of Gath” by Phillis Wheatley.

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  Scripture quotations are from the American Standard Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations are from the Weymouth New Testament.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Author is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Till Conq’ring David O’er the Giant Strode

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Goliath’s Sword Then Laid Its Master Dead

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  And from the Body Hew’d the Ghastly Head

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  The Blood in Gushing Torrents Drench’d the Plains

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  The Soul Found Passage through the Spouting Veins

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Ronie Kendig

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  — VALLEY OF ELAH—1025 BC —

  They were a stench in his nostrils. Bile in his throat. With their strange one God and arrogance, the vermin invaded this land, seized it, ruled it. It was time to make the dogs return to their vomit, to Egypt, where they had eked out an existence they deserved—slaves at the heels of Pharaoh.

  “How?” Sibbekai bellowed. “How do we wipe out this blight? We have tried, yet they persist.”

  Yishbi grunted. “They are like sores on my feet. Annoying, and just when you think they are gone—they return.”

  “Cut off the foot,” Gulat said, his gaze lingering on the flickering campfires of the enemy. Of the king, whose tent and guards seemed entirely too merry. He curled his fingers into a fist.

  “Gulat, I have an idea,” said a newcomer.

  A commotion arose with the voice, drawing Gulat’s attention to a man half his size who approached with six or seven others. Not dressed as those of Philistia, the man held his head high. Black hair oiled back. Tunic and breeches clean but worn. Shoulders squared. Chin up.

  Gulat frowned. “You have the look of the Arabs.”

  “And you have the look of an overgrown ox.”

  Stunned at the bravado tossed around so casually by this man, Gulat studied him. Considered laughing, then considered crushing his throat. “Why do you tempt death coming to me, Arab?”

  “We have a common enemy.”

  “I have many.” Gulat narrowed his eyes. “Which would that be?”

  “The one splayed before you.”

  Gulat shifted his gaze to the Hebrews. Laughter and merriment—the very fact they yet breathed enraged him. “We have been unable to deal with this rot. What makes you think you can?”

  “I am Mansur. My tribe, my position are of no importance.”

  “We are agreed,” Gulat taunted.

  “I bring you a gift.” Mansur faced one of his men, who produced a length of black cloth. The Arab unfurled the cloth and lifted something that glinted in the firelight. With the help of the other man, he aimed it at Gulat.

  “This is the Adama Herev.” He waited until Gulat took the blade.

  Gulat shifted, feeling the implication tease the edges of his mind. The steel felt . . . significant. “What do you want, Arab?”

  “If you please,” Mansur said as he settled his hand beneath the bronze scrollwork. He gripped the hilt, twisted, and slid it. With a crack, it came free. He held the gold scrollwork up to the firelight. “This contains a very thin duct that feeds directly”—he traced the center of the sword—“from the blood groove.”

  Gulat imagined—ached—for the blood of the Hebrews to fill that groove.

  “You wish to be rid of the Hebrews, yes?” Mansur hefted the piece, then reassembled it with the steel blade. “This will do that. Kill a Hebrew with this sword, and it will enslave their race for all time. They will die in droves. Those who survive will beg at your heels.”

  “You cursed the sword?” Yishbi asked, shock in his words.

  “Is it so hard to believe?” Mansur asked, challenging Gulat’s brother.

  Emboldened, Gulat reached again for the sword. Tested its weight. Held it out. Dawn peeked over the hill, spilling its first glint along the edge of the steel. “Good balance, though the scrollwork is lighter and goes unnoticed.”

  “Once it carries the blood of your enemies, it will not be light.”

  Gulat admired the steel. The scrollwork. “It would seem that we must slake this sword.” He grinned at his brothers. Then laughed. “Bring my armor! The steel thirsts!”

  1

  — LONDON, ENGLAND —

  The old man trembled as he heard, but bade his followers yoke the horses, and they made all haste to do so. He mounted the chariot, gathered the reins in his hand, and Antenor took his seat beside him; they then drove through the Scaean gates on to the plain. When they reached the ranks of the Trojans and Achaeans, they left the chariot and with measured pace advanced into the space between the hosts.

  Beside Joseph Cathey, the air stirred, and he released a long, grieved breath. “Could you not come during a less daunting part?” he muttered as he tugged down his reading glasses and looked up at his visitor. “And has anyone mentioned to you that it is impolite to appear twenty years younger than a man you outnumber by centuries?”

  Ti Tzaddik grinned. “You are too easily riled, old friend.”

  “Old? Speak for yourself.” J
oseph tapped his book with a glower. “I should make like the son of Atreus: ‘As he spoke he drew his knife across the throats of the victims.’”

  “Good thing there are no victims here.”

  Joseph grumbled, setting aside his tattered copy of the Iliad. “Since you are not prone to coincidence . . .” He sighed and looked at the old text. Sensed the heaviness of the one who had joined him without so much as a rap at the door or even opening one. “I guess there is work to be done. The final work.”

  “Are you ready, Joseph?”

  Joseph glanced down at the book. “They ‘were too old to fight, but they were fluent orators.’”

  “I’m afraid I am neither an orator nor too old. You must go to the Americans. Our enemies have hastened the search for the sword and set your apprentice on its path.”

  “Tzivia?” Joseph blanched. “How have they . . .” He groaned. “Her father.”

  “Aye. She must not return it to them, old friend. You know the consequences.”

  Joseph grunted, looking at the bookshelf. “That I do. But unless you are aware of things I am not, the final piece remains unaccounted for.”

  “That has not changed, but neither will I discount our enemy’s fervency this time. You know what hour draws nigh, and the way the air buzzes . . .” Tzaddik shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have not felt this in a very long time.”

  “Nor I.”

  Tzaddik stiffened. “We must meet their efforts head on. Go to them. Have them search for the sword.”

  “How?” Joseph complained. “They are rigid in their thinking. If there is no crime, if there is no activity—”

  “There is. When you go, they will know it.”

  With a labored sigh, Joseph watched his friend rise, and with him went his blood pressure. “You’re not going to tell me more than that, are you? Always with the mysteries.”

  “I trust you to sort it out. If I show it all to you—”

  “Yes, yes.” Joseph waved a hand. “Importance is lost and all that.” He couldn’t believe he was stepping into this again. But what did he expect? “Am I going to survive this one?”

  “Were this battle about you, perhaps I would offer assurance, but as the battle is Gulat’s blade and ensuring the assassins do not rise again, I can only give one promise.”

  Eyebrows lifted, Joseph looked at him expectantly. “Not especially reassuring, that. Go on.”

  “‘Death and destruction shall be theirs . . .’”

  Joseph laughed. “Idomeneus.” He nodded. “You chose well, old friend. He is one of the few alive at the end of the story.”

  “Why do you think I quoted him?”

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Deserving to die and wanting to die were two entirely different things. A greater desire—to live!—propelled her down the dirty streets of Moscow. Shoes slapping the pavement, she bolted from an alley into the dark, yawning emptiness of a street. Sprinted toward a narrow passage.

  From the shadows, a form coalesced. His shape was distinctive. Though there were no lights, she saw him. Knew him. Remembered his hands around Nadia’s neck.

  Tzivia Khalon skidded to a stop, her feet sliding out from under her. She fought for purchase, using a wall to shove away from him.

  “Ostanovis!” he shouted.

  Ha. Right. She wasn’t stopping. Not for anyone, especially the guy who’d just murdered the only friend she had in this godforsaken country. Tzivia threw herself around and sighted her exit. Lunged.

  Three men manifested from the void. Tall buildings on all sides had her surrounded.

  Darting right, she pulled in a hard breath. Walls hemmed in her front. Men behind.

  Trapped.

  She cursed her carelessness, her desperation, as she scanned for an exit. A gutter. Fence. Fire escape. Anything! Yet the night closed in, drawing the men and her death near.

  Nerves thrumming, she swung around. Faced the converging four. They arced out in a solid mass of muscle and threat that prevented her from escaping.

  It wasn’t in her nature to give up. Still, four to one . . . “Not exactly a fair fight,” she muttered, gauging her opponents. Three average-sized men. One a little taller than her brother, Ram, but shorter than Tox Russell. Beefier than both. Beneath his jacket bulged the imprint of a weapon.

  Yet he hadn’t drawn it.

  So you aren’t here to kill me. Good to know. Their orders must be to leash and retrieve, the way one might a stray dog. Drag her back to their alpha.

  The biggest man stalked closer. When he came into the wan light of a streetlamp, he hesitated. Darted a look up, as if the beam seared his dark soul. The illumination had an eerie effect, tracing thick, calloused fingers that danced in his eagerness to kill.

  Time to plan. First she had to get the giant to her left talking. Force him to engage his brain by asking him a question, which would give her a one-tenth of a second head start. As soon as his mouth opened to answer, she’d lunge. Wicked-fast kick to the groin.

  He’d bend, protecting the family jewels, bringing him down to size. She’d close the distance and drive two sharp elbow strikes to his temple. If that didn’t take him down, it would at least stun him. Then she’d use her blade. End him. She hated the thought, but he’d spared no mercy with Nadia, and she could not risk being captured.

  During his takedown, a task of two to three seconds, the others would be so stunned at the flurry of violence she unleashed on their leader that it would lengthen their reaction time. Thereby giving her the necessary edge.

  The stench of rotting waste swept her nostrils, awakening her. Alerting her to movement. They were advancing.

  Ready or not . . . Tzivia kept her hands at her side, loose. Comfortable. Trying to give them false confidence, she skated around a nervous look. “What do you want?” she shouted in Russian, making her voice pitch.

  The giant drew up his chin. Eyed her lazily. “Ty malen’kiy—”

  Tzivia surged. Snapped a hard front kick between his legs. The giant doubled and groaned.

  Sliding in closer, she twisted her torso. Drew up her left arm. Rammed her elbow into his temple with a shout. “Hiya!” Again. “Hiya!” Her shout was psychological. Her blows physical. Nailing him on two fronts.

  Moaning, he stumbled, his faculties compromised.

  As the giant wobbled to the ground, another fist flew. The strike collided with her cheekbone.

  Jarred, Tzivia grabbed the forearm. Twisted it as she caught the back of the attacker’s neck. Hooked him around, forcing him to kneel, spine against her knees. She arched his arm up over his head. Even as he howled at the pain of the maneuver, a third man came out of his stupor. Started at her.

  Holding tight to her prisoner, Tzivia drove her heel into Third’s face. Knocked him around. He face-planted. She focused on Two, tangled in her firm grasp. He was reaching for something. No doubt a gun.

  Hauling his arm higher, Tzivia realized time was her enemy.

  The pistol came up.

  She whipped out her KA-BAR. Drove it into his neck. In a flash, she sheathed the knife, snatched the gun from his limp hand, and spun to the others—Three and Four were gauging her. Staring down the barrel as the slack-jawed men shook themselves gave her time to gather her own wits. She dared them to come. She’d had enough. All she wanted was to save her father. Was it so much to ask?

  Three bolted back down the alley.

  Four went right.

  Tzivia pivoted. Aimed at Three and fired. The suppressed crack wasn’t silent but close enough. He tripped yet struggled on. She sighted lower, where he lay scrambling on the ground, and fired again. He slumped flat.

  Feet beat a hard path away from her—to the right. The fourth man. She whirled. Darkness warred with her need to protect herself.

  A shape blurred at her. Unprepared, Tzivia took the impact in her side. Pain exploded, but she shoved it away. Focused on her attacker, the giant. Furious, she shifted her stance. Glowered beneath a sweaty bro
w. Threw a right hook straight into his liver to inflict a shockwave of fiery agony.

  A gargled scream preceded his fall. But he staggered back to his feet.

  She sliced her knife-hand at his throat. He clutched his neck as he went down, gasping. Dying.

  But only as she staggered back did the rage of adrenaline surrender to a searing, unrelenting pain. She glanced at her side. Dark crimson spurted from a wound just above her hip. She flicked her gaze to the giant, to the bloody knife dangling from his hand. Stunned that he had stabbed her when she’d nailed his throat.

  Gripping her injury, she stood in the alley, sensing the oncoming adrenaline dump that would weight her body in exhaustion. Her limbs felt rubbery. Shuddering through a breath, Tzivia swiped a hand across her sweaty brow. She needed help. Needed . . .

  Omar.

  A deep, empty ache rose within her. She closed her eyes. Reached for him, for someone. Anyone. For comfort. Reassurance. But she was alone. As it had been for the past six months. Since she’d forsaken everything to seize a tip breathed in passion.

  A scream jolted her back to the present. A woman stumbled toward the man Tzivia had shot first. Fists in the air, she railed at Tzivia.

  The distant bells of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior gonged their summons. Signaled that her time was up.

  “No,” she whispered. Tzivia’s heart kick-started. It would take at least ten minutes to reach the cathedral. She’d already missed the appointment. But he’d wait. He had to. Because she had what he wanted.

  Tzivia made for the alley Four had fled down. Slipping the gun into her waistband at the small of her back, she shifted into a jog. Pain pinched her side. Each step spilled warmth down her hip, saturating her pants. The alley emptied into a tight passage that skimmed her shoulders and dumped her onto a well-lit road, wet from a fresh rain. A trolley clanged past.

  Minarets with white plaster bell towers gleamed over rooftops and served as a beacon. At this late hour, few walked the dark streets. Tzivia hung back, scanning for Four. Heavy air threatened more rain, but she forbade it until she reached the cathedral. She skirted buildings, staying close to walls and shadows, then broke into a run, grimacing at the fresh squeeze of pain. Cursing the man who’d stabbed her, she wondered how she’d missed his knife. Hadn’t even seen it coming.

  Curse yourself. She’d brought it on herself, coming here, believing she could actually do this alone. But she hadn’t wanted to hear Ram’s remonstrations. Didn’t want him clobbering her ears with his chastisements, telling her to let it go. That they must accept the truth—their father was dead.