Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

At those familiar, haunting words, Tox stilled. They’d been among the last words Dr. Cathey had spoken. Being with this man was as bad, if not worse, than Tzaddik. “We should go.”

  “Hm, it might be too late for the elevator.” Gath moved to the wall and swiped a palm over it. A panel receded. He punched a keypad. “Go!”

  The floor vibrating under his feet, Tox heard something behind him and pivoted. A wall had vanished, and in its place, a new opening gaped. A new tunnel. He started for it with Tzivia.

  “At the right time.”

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Weakness saturated his limbs. Muscles stiff and painful, Ram grimaced as he rolled onto his back. Stared at the nothingness that ate his vision. Why did he hurt so much? He’d had his last infusion less than a week ago. He shouldn’t be in pain.

  Maybe I’m growing immune.

  It happened to some who battled the strain, their body developing an immunity to the steroids and clotting agents. But advancements in medicine had nearly eliminated that possibility. This shouldn’t be . . .

  He had to get his mind on Tzivia. On the battle for the sword. Had to stop her. He didn’t want his father to die, but neither was he convinced that his father was worth anyone dying for. It was awful, but he couldn’t let go of the one suspicion that had haunted him for years. One overheard conversation before his father walked out into the night.

  Cranking echoed through the chamber.

  Dim light greedily strangled the shadows. It stretched, strained to reach him, and ushered in three men.

  “What do you want with me?” Ram growled, dragging himself—so weak—against the wall behind him. Propped himself up. “What’d you do to me?”

  “Nothing,” came the monotone voice of Nur Abidaoud.

  “You,” Ram growled and lunged to his feet, tripping. This . . . this was wrong. Why was he off balance?

  “You know the incubation time for the strain, yes?”

  Ram leaned heavily on the wall. Looked at the men wearily. Of course he knew its incubation period. His biceps ached. Pressing his thumb into the muscle felt good in a raw, agonizing way. Like a chiropractor’s adjustment.

  “If you don’t have the infusions regularly, you grow weak.” Nur angled his head. “I would not press too hard, Ram. You would not want that to bruise.”

  Ram stilled. He’d had his infusion. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Will you?” Nur swept back his slick hair. “Oh, that’s right. You believe that because you recently gave yourself the regular infusion. The one you keep in that safe in the black—no, navy blue pouch.”

  How did he know that? Nobody knew. Ram had hidden it. But panic squirmed through him at the insinuation. “What’d you do?”

  “Me?” Nur scoffed. “I did nothing.” He laughed. “Igor, on the other hand, might have exchanged your infusion vials for”—he shrugged—“simple saline?”

  No. Ram struggled to breathe. “That’s not—”

  “Possible?” Nur jutted his jaw toward Ram. “Your arm is already bruising.”

  Though he didn’t want to play into the man’s hand, Ram glanced down. His gut tightened when he saw blood had risen to the epidermis where he’d pressed his thumb. Thought of the weakness he felt. The bruising Mercy had noticed. He was in trouble.

  “It’s a painful way to go, Ram.” Nur paced, rubbing a finger below his lower lip. “I’ve seen grown men shriek like newborn babes as their insides hemorrhaged. A brutal, excruciating way to die, drowning in your own blood because your body no longer has the ability to clot, to heal itself.”

  This couldn’t be happening. Panic swirled through Ram and he slowly—carefully—lowered himself to the ground.

  Nur narrowed his eyes, and his lips thinned. “You’ve been trying to stop your sister from saving not only your father but thousands of men who, without the cure the sword will bring, live in fear every day that their bodies might reject the infusion or simply stop working. Our line nearly died out thousands of years ago, Ram. The curse has plagued us—”

  “It’s not a curse.”

  “Are you sure? Shall we test your theory?” Nur lifted a finger.

  The mountain of flesh behind him came forward and unlocked the cage. The look on his face betrayed his intent, his orders.

  Ram knew what was coming and staggered back to his feet. He thought about throwing himself at the burly man, but the weakness, the trembling muscles warned he’d only injure himself. “Nur.” He tried to sound strong. Threatening. “Don’t do this.”

  “Those very words are the ones I would have you hear yourself, Ram.” Nur nodded to the mountain. “I fear you will not abandon this path against the sword. I take no pleasure in doing this to you. It’s a slow, cruel death.”

  A meaty fist drove into Ram’s gut. He doubled. Panic exploded through him, imagining the veins in his stomach breaking and seeping blood into his system.

  When the mountain reared back, Ram hurled himself into the man’s gut. It knocked the man back a step, but that was it.

  Fists pummeled Ram’s sides and ribs. He cried out, his knees buckling at the pain. He thought to fight. Knife-hand to the throat. To the groin. But his limbs hung defiant. Exhausted. With each blow, he lost another measure of hope. Of strength.

  The fist reared back again.

  “Not the head,” Nur commanded.

  A left hook nailed Ram’s right abdomen.

  “Augh!” White-hot pain ruptured his ability to think, to stand. He fell against the wall. Slid to his knees. To his hip. Tasted blood.

  When the mountain retreated, Ram wanted to lunge at the gate. Instead, he was owned by a failing body.

  Blood trickled down his temple as the man faded to shadow. Closed the iron gate. Locked it.

  “Remember this pain,” Nur said. “Thousands will have this fate if you forget the way, if you abandon your kin. The Nizari Ismailis will defeat the curse. We will break the curse, but the only way is with the sword. You will understand.”

  Darkness swallowed Ram once more, clamping him into its oppressive embrace until all he heard was the hollow knock of death.

  The Soul Found Passage through the Spouting Veins

  “Brother—behind you!”

  Giraude rounded in time to see a Saracen barreling toward him from the side. Searing steel sang through the air, slicing as Giraude parried and blocked. His blade connected hard with the man’s gut. Though exhaustion rimmed his eyes and blood coated his clothes, the Saracen persisted.

  Yet Giraude persisted more. His wife and child made him unrelenting, forced him to remember what he fought for. Who he must return to. It surprised him that he had left those he most loved under the protection of a man he once called enemy. The journey had taught him to weigh not the skin, not the oath one took, but the heart one possessed.

  The savage Saracen shouted to his god and once more tried to sever Giraude’s life. Their swords clanged hard. Giraude swung up and around, breaking the man’s grip. The Saracen’s long blade flew from his hand and thudded to the earth behind him.

  Face twisted with fury, the Saracen screamed and produced a dagger. That would be his end. Not the blade, but the anger. He was a fool to come at Giraude in this set of mind. And against a man whose strength was not the sword but strategy.

  The blade drove forward. Another foolish maneuver.

  Giraude caught the Saracen’s wrist. Snapped his other hand against the man’s throat, then gripped his nape. Drove him down and around, dropping him to his knees, all the while still holding his dagger hand. With an arm stretched up along his spine, the Saracen howled in pain.

  Giraude freed him of the dagger.

  “You are a fool.” Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth and black beard.

  “Am I?” Giraude firmed his hold on the man’s dagger.

  “You think he is your friend.” He laughed. Dark. Maniacal. “He is your enemy. Even now he rapes and murders your wife.”

  The words dug through the haze of adrena
line and rage. Giraude slowed. Froze. Matin. With a swipe of the blade, Giraude delivered the Saracen of his life. He spun. Raced for his destrier, panic driving him back to the tribe. Back to Shatira.

  “Brother!” he shouted as he mounted. “They are in danger!”

  Thefarie yanked around. Eyes ablaze. White mantle splotched with the blood of their enemies. “Go!”

  The hours-long ride seemed to take days. Giraude stopped only to water his horse before barreling on. Ameus rode with him, his own silence mirroring Giraude’s rage.

  Shatira. No. No, it could not happen.

  Matin would not. He had lived with them. Laughed with them. Protected them. Killed the Saracen who tried to steal Giraude’s life.

  As daylight surrendered to the specter of night, smoke billowed in the distance. Giraude drew up his mount, heart in his throat.

  The three oaks. Bright with fire and smoke.

  “No,” he whispered, disbelieving. Horrified. “No!” He drove his heels into his mount and tore across the half league to the encampment.

  Bodies lay strewn on the ground like trash tossed aside. Giraude navigated the dead, noting too well the Saracens moving through the tents, still murdering. Screams spiraled through the smoke-laden sky. Tents whooshed to the ground, surrendering to the flames and stirring dust and ash.

  Giraude rode hard to his tent. His destrier shifted sideways as he launched from the saddle to the ground. He landed hard but came up running. “Shatira!”

  “She’s not there!”

  Pivoting, Giraude caught sight of Yitshak propped against a tree, badly wounded. Bleeding heavily. His hooded eyes held Giraude’s.

  “Where?” Giraude demanded. “Where is my wife?”

  “South!” Yitshak growled, pointing in the direction of the holy city. “She fled.”

  “Avr—”

  “She has him. But”—blood spurted between Yitshak’s lips as he coughed—“Matin has gone after her.”

  “I—I will return for you.”

  Giraude took to his mount, angry he could not stay with his father-in-law, see to his wounds or see him into the arms of God. He rode with the fury of a sandstorm, barreling down on the man he saw in the distance.

  Matin kept a steady pace, not riding as if his life depended on it. A mistake that promised Giraude a blood price. Beyond Matin in the haze of the early evening, Shatira ran. Her dress and head covering fluttered. Her small frame making quick work of her trek to safety. But she was not quick enough. The Saracen would catch her. Take her. Kill her.

  Giraude spurred his destrier. Heavy snorts huffed in time with the hooves of the mighty beast as he gained on the Saracen. “Traitor!” he roared.

  For the first time, Matin glanced back. Slowed. Then his horse reared and shot forward.

  No. Giraude could not let him run her down like a wounded animal. He would not.

  Matin raised a bow and arrow.

  Giraude’s breath caught, staggered through his lungs as he looked at his wife. At the woman he loved. “No!”

  The arrow flew with intent and accuracy. True and fast. Straight into Shatira’s back. She jolted forward. Toppled to the ground.

  Howling, Giraude rammed his boots into the destrier’s flanks. The beast screamed and vaulted forward.

  Matin continued toward Shatira, raising yet another arrow. Would he kill her a second time? But then Giraude saw movement. A small mound.

  “Avram,” he breathed, the pounding of hooves matching his heartbeat. Wailing, his son pushed off the ground to sit beside his dead mother. Confused. Terrified. The sound proved an anchor to Giraude’s soul.

  Matin closed in.

  Giraude was not near enough to reach him. He had but a blade. So with all the rage and strength his Lord had given him, he sent his sword spiraling tip over hilt at the Saracen.

  Steel found its target with a meaty thud. Flipped the Saracen from the horse. Pinned him to the earth into which he had spilled blood.

  Though the sword hit Matin, it had yet to stop him. The Saracen reached for a dagger. Hefted it.

  Giraude barreled past him. Swung down and snatched his shrieking son from the ground. Startled and terrified, Avram flung out his arms, his screams suspended for a terrified moment. Then he let loose with more outrage. Giraude clutched him to his chest.

  Ameus thundered up to him.

  “Take him,” Giraude said, handing Avram to his brother-knight. “Get him to safety. They will kill him if he’s found.”

  “Matin has the Adama Herev.”

  Giraude met his brother-knight’s gaze, then spun, panic writhing through his chest. He pivoted and saw Matin hoist a blade and struggle to his feet.

  “Go!” Ameus ordered.

  Drawing out his dagger and shiv, Giraude dismounted. He sprinted toward the Saracen. Knocked him to the ground.

  Matin lost his grip. The cursed sword flipped out of reach.

  “Betrayer!” Giraude cried. “I called you friend.”

  Propped up, Matin sneered. “Then you are a bigger fool than I believed.” He spit a stream of blood to the side. “I had but to wait for you to leave. It was too easy.”

  “So easy you failed.” Giraude tightened his hand around the dagger’s hilt, anxious to drive it into the Saracen. “Why?” He had only to make the man work hard to stay alive, an effort that would bleed him out.

  White teeth stained red, Matin struggled. He glanced to the side. At the sword.

  “Do not!” Giraude warned.

  But the Saracen lunged.

  So did Giraude. Instinct wielded his knife at the enemy’s outstretched arm. The collision of steel and bone resonated through the blade.

  With a scream of pain, Matin threw himself back. Cradled his arm to his chest. Growled at Giraude.

  “Why?” Giraude demanded again.

  “Because you are Dawiyya. She of Daoud—I needed her blood to free my people from the curse!”

  “That will never happen.”

  “She is dead and her father with her. Their line is—”

  “My son is not, and he carries her blood.”

  Disgust writhed through Matin. “I will find him. And I will kill him,” he growled. “I will—”

  Rage found release as Giraude fell on the Saracen with his blade.

  Fire exploded through his gut. He realized, too late, that the Saracen had produced a second dagger. Shoved it through the side of Giraude’s armor and into his flesh. Straight up. Into his lungs.

  He pulled in a searing breath. Giraude would not die with this man alive. Shiv in hand, he drove it into Matin’s neck.

  They slumped in mutual defeat, and Giraude pulled in a ragged breath. Grabbed the Saracen’s tunic. Shook him. “You were my friend!”

  Matin blinked. Then blinked no more as he fell back against the earth. Lifeless eyes stared at the moon.

  Arms weak from blood loss, Giraude fought to push himself up. Instead, he collapsed. Propped on an elbow, he looked toward his beloved. Staggered to his feet. Stumbled. Tripped. Pushed himself to Shatira. Dropped at her side. Pulled her into his arms.

  “Shatira,” he choked, tears and the approach of death stinging. “Forgive me.” He placed a hand on her womb, where another child had begun and died. Head on her breast, he battled for air. It would be over soon. He would . . . “I’m coming, my love.”

  He breathed—tried to. There was naught but pain. He lay beside her but could not bring himself to lay his head down and welcome the coldness. The emptiness.

  “Giraude!”

  He lifted his eyes. “The sword,” he choked out, pointing.

  Ameus charged across the field and seized the Adama Herev. At last they could put an end to this cursed weapon.

  The babe was still in Ameus’s arms. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Confused. Distraught. Strong.

  Avram, my son, I would like to have known you.

  45

  — MOSCOW, RUSSIA —

  Mercy could endure a lot, but not being alone. Maybe it was
seeing Ram snatched in broad daylight that wore on her. Or the fear that those who’d taken him would come for her next.

  She glanced at the doors. Visually traced the locks. Deadbolted. Windows—secured. Roof vents. Then back to the system monitor that had no cameras. No way to communicate haunting messages like his computers—whose pieces lay spread across the floor. She was using a rudimentary system that would block most hacks but also limited her capabilities. Which might be what was driving her nuts.

  Car doors thudding outside stabbed her awareness. Mercy slapped the laptop shut. Hugging it to her chest, she stood, wishing she could see through steel walls. With a pounding heart, she abandoned the laptop and scurried up to the wall by the door and slammed her back against it. Ear to the wall, she listened over her staccato heartbeat.

  The alarm would go off. They’d run in fear.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Each pound on the door struck Mercy’s courage. Then—unbelievably—the locks disengaged. What? She stepped back as the door flung open. Three men carted in another and deposited him on the bed she’d just vacated in the corner.

  Stunned, she stood there, staring. Gaping.

  “What is this?” a burly man growled, bending over the disassembled computers. “No wonder we’re blind. Where is she?” He straightened and looked around, his gaze colliding with hers. Anger shot through his features. “You did this?”

  “If you had a name, I might consider answering that.”

  “Mercy Maddox.”

  She smirked around her hammering pulse. “I think that’s my name. Did you need to borrow it?” God help her, but men like this brought out the worst in her.

  He huffed. Stalked toward her. Thrust something at her.

  She yelped, catching it, only then registering whom they had laid on the bed. “Ram!”

  His face was swollen and bruised. Limbs coated with black and blue marks.

  The bearded, dark-eyed man pointed at the padded black case he’d tossed at her. “He needs infusions every two hours, starting at”—he looked at his watch—“1400.”

  “What’d you do to him?” she railed, lunging. “Why? How dare you—”

  He shoved her back. Pinned her to the wall. “I didn’t do this. We lost two men getting Ram out.”