Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  “Both artists painted the sword?” Haven asked.

  Holding up a long, gnarled nail, Zoryana smiled. “They painted the beheading of Goliath. But since I have no need for brutality or violence”—she trilled her fingers at the drawing—“I ‘extracted’ the sword from their renderings. Let the vicious have the paintings. My concern is steel.” She scrunched her shoulders as she considered the image. “But both are unrealistic—the size of it alone would have toppled the shepherd boy. Had he lifted it above his head, he would never have exerted enough force to sever a man’s head.”

  “People also say David could not have killed him with a slingshot or stone to the head,” Haven said with a rueful smile.

  “Yet you believe he did.” Zoryana gave a mocking laugh. “But that, too, is part of the fun, is it not? The low probability that this actually happened.” She arched an eyebrow at Dr. Cathey. “But your dear professor there believes anything the Bible says.”

  “I believe in the inerrancy of God’s Word, yes.”

  “Despite all the inconsistencies and—”

  “I am not here to debate.”

  “All’s the pity,” she said.

  Haven glanced over the renderings, tucking her hair back. “Which do you believe is the most accurate representation of the sword?”

  “What does it matter?” Zoryana scoffed. “It will not be found. Men have searched for centuries—and who is to say it even exists or ever did?”

  “Men also searched for centuries for the Crown of Souls, and it dropped into our laps,” Dr. Cathey said. “Please indulge us.”

  Rolling her eyes, Zoryana sighed. “Yes, I heard about your little adventure in Qal’at Sherqat.” Her gaze popped to Haven. “You survived nearly drowning!”

  Startled Zoyrana knew about that part of that terrible mission, Haven tried to restrict her response. “Something I won’t soon forget,” she whispered.

  Zoryana considered the professor. “Do you think it’s your job to find all the treasures? Why is this so important to you?”

  If they told her why, would she try to seize the sword herself? Sell it? She certainly seemed the type to profit off a powerful artifact.

  “Perhaps,” Dr. Cathey said, “because it might have been found.”

  “Impossible!” Zoryana hissed, but there was a light in her eyes, a hope. “I would know if that were the case. Besides, the Adama Herev is in pieces, scattered across the world. No one knows where they all are.”

  “Who broke it into pieces?” Haven asked.

  “After the sword was used against the Philistines instead of for them, David took it. Kept it. Then it vanished from lore. Some say it was melted down. But it was too late. The bloodline had been contaminated.”

  “Contaminated? You mean cursed,” Ram asked.

  Surprise leapt through Haven as Ram entered the conversation. He wasn’t one to engage, especially not a woman like Zoryana Skoryk.

  Her smile turned sultry. “You are the handsomest devil, with those hazel-green eyes and that dark curly hair. Why do you hide it under that ridiculous hat?” She reached those blood-red nails toward his beanie.

  Ram veered away. “Why do you hide beneath that oversized towel?”

  She sucked in a breath—then laughed. Shocked and yet entertained. “I like you.”

  “Then tell me what we need to know, as a favor,” he replied, apparently using her attention and distraction to their benefit.

  “Need to know?” Though Zoryana looked surprised, there was a knowing in her eyes. “I thought this was research.”

  Dr. Cathey shifted at the way Ram held her gaze, defiant, strong. Though Haven didn’t know this woman, she had a bad feeling about the black widow Ram was staring down.

  “Why do you play with us?” Ram demanded. “You know we aren’t treasure hunters. If you are so much the expert, then you, too, have heard the sword is being hunted and a piece located.”

  Zoryana squinted. “It is always being hunted, darling.” Something filtered through her expertly applied face, eyes sparking at Ram. “One member or another of the Niph’al always wants that curse lifted. They want their line cleansed.” She leaned in closer to Ram, then planted a hand on his chest. “Don’t you, little Hashashin?”

  At the ancient name for the assassins, Ram grew visibly tense. A dangerous glint grew in his expression. His fists balled.

  Haven looked to the professor for help, afraid to step into the land mine of their confrontation.

  “Zoryana, the curse,” Dr. Cathey prompted. “Tell me what you know, and we will be on our way.”

  Sneering, Zoryana pushed Ram back a step. “When the sword was used to slay Goliath, it drank his blood.”

  “Zoryana!”

  “Do not speak to me in such a decibel, old man!” Ms. Skoryk shook her head and looked at Haven. “Men can be so difficult.” Angling her attention back to the men, she continued. “It is said the Niph’al created a bronze guard around the hilt to draw the blood from the blade’s groove and encase it, thereby enslaving the slain people for all time.”

  “That sounds outrageous,” Haven said. “A sword that drinks blood . . .”

  “It gets better, lovely,” Zoryana said with a smirk. “It is said because of the curse of the Adama Herev, the entire bloodline—those of the Philistines and those of the assassins—also have the thirst of steel.”

  “The what?” Haven glanced at the others in confusion, disliking how Ram turned away and started studying the renderings.

  “The sword—the steel,” Ms. Skoryk said, “it thirsts for the blood of those who enslaved it. It calls to the mercenaries, demands they release the blood trapped in its steel.”

  “Dramatic,” Haven said.

  “Perhaps,” Zoryana said with a lazy shrug. “But it is true thousands of Philistines dropped dead in the days following the battle in the Valley of Elah.”

  Haven blinked, then looked to Dr. Cathey and Ram. “So some survived?” She folded her arms, rubbing her shoulder as she shivered.

  “That is the trick of it.” Zoryana’s eyebrow winged up, as did the corner of her mouth. “Only males died.”

  “But,” Haven said, not meaning to state the obvious or be argumentative, “clearly some survived to manhood, right? Or there wouldn’t be any here trying to break the curse.”

  “Yes, yes.” Zoryana sighed. “You are not so much fun, Ms. Cortes. The Niph’al marry their sons off as soon as they reach adulthood so they can father children. There. Are we happy now?”

  “How does finding the sword—”

  “Its pieces,” Zoryana corrected.

  “—break the curse?” Haven asked. “If it ‘drank’ the blood of the Philistines . . . how do they free themselves?”

  “Truly!” Zoryana glowered at Dr. Cathey but pointed to Haven. “This one is exhausting!”

  This woman infuriated Haven. But perhaps that was her game. Distract with insults. Did that mean Haven was hitting a nerve?

  “Her question is sound,” Dr. Cathey said, stroking his beard. “How is the curse broken?”

  “It is broken only by the blood of David, who wielded the sword.”

  “The blood of David?” Haven’s frown was severe. “King David? He’s been dead since—”

  “His blood—kin, heirs, progeny!” Zoryana shouted, flinging her hands in the air. “Merciful, you are a—”

  “How does the blood break the curse?” It was Ram this time, his voice steady. Electricity zapped through his question, his stance.

  It drew Zoryana like an assassin to the kill. She slid closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I would tell you anything, darling.”

  At the less-than-coy declaration, Dr. Cathey tensed. “I—”

  Ram held up a hand, his glinting gaze on the metallurgist. “So someone born of David’s bloodline . . .”

  “The blood groove of the Adama Herev holds Philistine blood, which enslaved the mercenaries. David’s blood will cleanse that, neutralizing it, as it were.�
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  Haven nodded. “If they have the thirst of steel and crave the blood of their enemies, why do they not simply wipe out the line?”

  “Oh my dear, some are trying, very vainly,” Zoryana said. “But you can imagine their plight—have you any idea how large the line of David is? He had dozens of wives and concubines. Solomon, his son, hundreds beyond that! Where does it start? Where does it end?” She stabbed a finger in the air. “But do not think they have not tried. Time and again. But without the sword brought back together, they cannot find freedom, no matter how great the thirst.”

  19

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  LION: You must stop.

  Tzivia’s heart pounded against his words. Against him insisting on what he knew very well she would never do. Her fingers shook as she typed a reply.

  LAMB: Stopping means giving up on him. Would you do that? To your family?

  LION: It is too dangerous. Angering powerful enemies is not smart.

  LAMB: Neither is letting them win.

  LION: This isn’t about winning. It’s about living—surviving!

  Anger tumbled and crashed through her as she stared at the monitor. How could he do this? Why was he turning against her? Omar had been her one true supporter, even with all she’d done to him. The way she had betrayed him. Perhaps this was payback.

  LAMB: Survival means nothing if you betray those you care about. If surviving means leaving loved ones to their graves, what is that but the worst betrayal? I will not be that person.

  LION: Anger is natural, but be cautious. They are watching. Very closely.

  Her heart spasmed. Watching her? How? How had they found her? Though she didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to search her surroundings, she allowed her gaze to skim the monitors for green “active” lights, the ceilings for black nubs, the light fixtures and electrical outlets. Surely not.

  LAMB: How do they know where I am? Is it you? Have you betrayed me?

  LION: You know I would never do such a thing. I am not the only asset they have. I’ve given everything to protect you, but your own foolishness, your own carelessness has put them on to you.

  Anger writhed as she read his admonishment. She could hear him. See those dark eyes ablaze over her impetuousness. It would not be the first time. Why he put up with her, she did not know. And why she tolerated his tongue-lashings was as much a mystery.

  LION: If you persist, they will intervene. I do not want to see that happen.

  Intervene. Stop her. Kill her.

  She cradled her head in her hands. Dug her fingers into her scalp and fought back the scream welling within. She was violating so much of her own code. Her own rules. But it had to be done—to save her father.

  LAMB: If you had seen him . . . It’s horrendous. They are brutalizing him. Beating him. Starving him. All to force my hand.

  LION: . . .

  LAMB: I cannot live with myself if he dies because I did not try. He would do this for me. I can do no less for my father. Tox did it for his girl. Would you do this for me?

  The question was bold. But she feared she already knew the answer. Omar was a warrior. However, his loyalty was not to a person, but a country. He would die for Israel. He would not die for her.

  LION: He is one man, Lamb. You risk an entire nation!

  Throat thick with raw emotion, she covered her mouth. Only then realizing how much she’d hoped, with a wild, crazy, desperate hope, that he’d sacrifice everything for her. Nobody had ever been willing to do that.

  So she must rely on herself. As she always did. It was what had gotten her to this point.

  LAMB: Must go. Have a new lead that needs my attention.

  LION: I beg you.

  LAMB: Begging looks good on you.

  She ended the transmission, cleared the history, and strolled out of the Moscow State University library, aware of her surroundings and weakness. Weakness for Omar. For the yearning to talk with someone. Ram was out of the question—one call, and he’d track her down, destroy what little progress she’d made. There was a time she might have wanted to talk to Tox, but she didn’t want to create trouble for him and Haven.

  As she made her way off campus, Tzivia couldn’t believe the idea that came to her. She knew better. But the one person whose brain she wanted to pick was Dr. Cathey. She didn’t need his religious ramblings, but she could no more separate Dr. C’s faith from the other side of him—the logic, the intellect—than she could make a whole sword from one piece.

  He’d know. Dr. Cathey would know where to look for the next piece. She had ideas and had pursued them. For the first piece, dumb luck had let her stumble on a link in a scholarly article that led her to a recent gallery at the State Archive. It had been mislabeled as Roman era, when the work and weight convinced her it was Iron Age. And that the edges were so straight and grooved. Nur’s expert said it would take time to verify, but Tzivia was convinced of its authenticity.

  As if she would risk her father’s life with a fake!

  She’d been irresponsible in her legwork once before, and the professor had raked her over the coals. He’d demanded hard work and superior character from his students. Of course, he wouldn’t be happy that she’d stolen the piece from the Archive, but then, he probably wouldn’t approve of her working for the AFO either.

  She didn’t approve.

  “You are better than this, Tzivia!” His words sailed from the past, four years ago as she stood in Dr. Cathey’s office at Oxford, where he was an adjunct professor and she a lowly graduate student, desperate to finish her degree. Desperate for recognition. But she’d cut a few corners. And inadvertently cut off another doctoral student, leaving her . . .

  “You are too bright for this, too promising!” he barked, slamming her file on the table. “And to do this to Margaret when you have every opportunity before you—”

  “I only have what I have seized,” Tzivia bit back.

  “But that is just it!” he growled as he stepped closer and caught her arms. “You are a natural, Tzivia. Brilliant, passionate. There is no need to usurp your colleagues, to compete with them. We, each of us, are working toward the same goal: revealing history! Work with them. Support them. Champion them, and you will find that you rise with them, not against them!”

  She’d stood there in his office that night, so hurt and angry that he’d called her on something she’d known better than to do. But desperation to have that recognition, to be plucked from her sad, nondescript scrape of a life, had driven her to stoop low. So very low. Grieved that she’d disappointed him, she couldn’t face him. Hated that roiling emotion in his eyes. Instead, she’d bored holes into the framed picture on the shelf behind him.

  Back then, she couldn’t understand why it angered her so much. But she could still hear his anger, though his voice never rose. Could still see the disbelief and something far worse—disappointment—in his gray eyes. A pang over her petulance then thumped in her breast.

  She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her hoodie as she walked back to the flat. If only she could say she’d been young and inexperienced. But that had only been a few years ago. Just before Kafr al-Ayn and Tox Russell.

  What would Dr. Cathey say now?

  She snorted. She didn’t want to know.

  Tzivia stopped. Wait. Her heart skipped a beat, mind vaulting back to that memory. Not his reprimand.

  Wait wait wait.

  She shoved her hand into her hair and turned a slow circle, thinking. What . . . That photograph! Dr. Cathey and an old friend of his. But it wasn’t the two friends laughing, arms around each other as they posed for a picture, that snagged her thoughts. It was what sat behind them. On a glass stand on a bookshelf.

  She hauled in a hard breath. Snapped up her head. With a gasp, she pivoted on her heel and sprinted back to her flat. There, she shoved the key into the lock, flung open the door, and dove for her laptop. In the split second between her entry and the door shutting, she realized her mistake.
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  The alarm hadn’t gone off.

  As she registered this, panic erupted. Adrenaline shot through her veins. In the space of a heartbeat, she saw the man coming at her.

  20

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Crash-course lessons in surveilling and recon came with being an operator, teaching the soldier to read a situation in order to stay alive. Two minutes ago, Tox thought for sure Tzivia had eyeballed him when she’d pivoted right in front of him. He’d shoved himself back into an alcove but noted she had a skip in her step. She’d figured something out. But she was distracted, and that planted him the shadows as she sprinted up the stairs and aimed for her apartment. It told him to watch.

  That and the vibrating along his nape that warned of trouble.

  Tox heard a confrontation. Punches. Breaking furniture. Shattering glass. Heavy thuds. A scream. It wasn’t Tzivia. She wouldn’t scream.

  He took the steps two at a time, sometimes three, and vaulted through the narrow stairwell. Barreled down the hall. He drove his heel into the door. It flung inward, splintered. Smacked a wall and flapped back. He shrugged it aside, weapon drawn as he pushed into the small flat, nearly tripping over a body.

  A man. Sprawled between the small three-foot hall and the twenty-square-foot living room.

  The shrill sound of glass raining down came from his right. Tox twitched that way and started for the bedroom, where shadows leapt and dodged across the wall. He pushed on, staring down the sights of his gun.

  Edging into the room stalled his mind.

  Tzivia was fighting two men—both nearly twice her size. She was a blur of strikes, kicks, punches, and blocks. He knew that about her. Knew her lethality.

  A knife-hand to her side nailed her hard. She groaned and kept fighting, but she was slowing. Wouldn’t last much longer.