Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  The words drew Tox up sharp. His gaze bounced to Haven, who’d gone still, pale.

  “You see how vast our organization is, ever-reaching.”

  “And yet you couldn’t find the sword without tormenting your own daughter.” Tox shouldn’t anger the guy holding his wife, but the words escaped before he could stop them.

  “What you call torment, I call motivation. So did a certain friend of the Russell family.”

  Tox waited, tensed. Ram had his life upended by incredible revelations that morning, and he guessed turnabout was fair play.

  “When your brother’s wife was given information about our highest operative in your country, we were forced to silence her.”

  Confusion pummeled Tox. “I killed her.”

  “To be precise, no. You did not. But when one has people in all the right organizations, anything can be made to look true.” Yared grinned, a sickening sight, and wiped a finger along the side of his mouth. “You see, you took the shot that killed al-Homsi—also intel fed to your superiors by our asset. But another sniper took care of the president-elect’s wife. We could not allow her to expose our asset. He is such a delicious plant. Controlling the president. Influencing policy. But lest he become a target of suspicion, he helped the president’s brother. Arranged a special deal.”

  Drowning in the tangled revelations, Tox felt sick. The deal he’d taken had been to help him. “To get me out of the way.”

  “What better way?” Yared scoffed. “You were so ready to leave, to hide your head in shame for killing your first love. It was even easier than he expected.”

  Only one name came to mind, one person who had so much influence with Tox’s brother, with DOD officials.

  “Barry Attaway.”

  52

  — VALLEY OF ELAH —

  Drums beat the steady cadence of war.

  “Finally,” Igor muttered, a dark gleam in his eyes. Her father had ordered the buffoon to stand guard and keep her out of the way.

  Arms folded, Tzivia watched as the “armies” drew into formation in preparation for the mock battle. Feeling powerless, she eyed those who’d donned mantles and long tunics for the reenactment. Familiarity wreathed several faces. She twitched, recognizing a couple of the people she’d worked a dig with. Hebrew, she thought.

  Well, of course. They were in Israel.

  But then she noticed their hands. They weren’t simply holding swords. The blades were tied to their hands.

  Tzivia straightened, pacing the length of the hill, verifying what she’d detected. This didn’t make sense. Why were they . . . ? Her gaze skipped across the road to the Philistine ranks and then hit the generator used for lighting and equipment. Its large tanker sat close by. Too close.

  “Hey,” Igor growled. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” But something . . .

  He smirked. “Are you impressed? You brought the sword together, and now he will start first with punishing their line.”

  There was only one explanation for that vicious drive—the thirst of steel. Had it so wholly controlled her father? But it was scientific, right? From the strain. It drove men to the brink of madness. And this was truly madness. “He’s insane to want to kill everyone.”

  “Not everyone. Just the blasted Niph’al and the Israelites,” Igor said with a nod. “He has it planned.”

  Understanding dawned—these people weren’t actors. They were prisoners. Horrified, she realized the AFO had rounded up their enemy, brought them to this field, and . . .

  Tzivia followed Igor’s gaze and saw a long, thin band of men forming at the edge of the road. They shifted their stance and lifted—

  “No!” She sucked in a breath as she saw the crossbows the first line held. In the early light of dawn, the arrows glittered silver beneath the sun’s first kiss. “Dear God, help!”

  She had never cried out to God before, but the plea was desperate and earnest now. It wasn’t possible to argue against His existence any longer when she’d stood face-to-face with Dr. Cathey reborn. Ameus.

  Do something! She lurched forward, only to be yanked back by Igor.

  “Stay—”

  Tzivia caught her balance. Planted her left foot. With a solid side kick, she drove her right heel into his face as she heard the command from downhill to nock arrows.

  Igor stumbled, spun. But came up, weapon with him.

  “Mark!”

  Her ears rang with the next command to the archers. Tzivia landed with her right foot. Hopped, swinging her left around and nailing Igor’s head again with a hook kick.

  Shouts and shots peppered the morning.

  “Draw!”

  She ducked, aware others were coming to Igor’s aid, but she had to alert someone. Do something. They couldn’t kill those—

  “Loose!”

  Tzivia swung around, breath trapped in her throat as she stared out at the battlefield.

  Startlingly blue phosphorous arrows sailed into the predawn skies. Screams and shrieks gave chase to daylight, vanishing beneath the thick cloak of death. Dusk hovered over the rich, green valley, ready to bring the dawn of David’s era to rest along the brook. The same brook from which the shepherd David had chosen five smooth stones.

  Tzivia crumbled to her knees, stricken. Mortified.

  Mute with horror, she watched the people as another wave of arrows struck. Some tried to flee but only crumbled to the ground, writhing. Their screams raked her soul.

  Cuffed and chained to a cement block east of the battleground, Tox stood helplessly as arrows whistled through the brightening sky. Unable to breathe, realizing hundreds of innocents would die, he yanked against the chains. “Augh! No!”

  Futility coursed through him.

  Shouts went up, snapping his attention to the field.

  A shock went through him as Thefarie, Ameus, and Raoul appeared in the midst of the Israelis, weapons raised. With a thunderous bellow, they wielded their swords, deflected arrows. Some strikes activated the arrow tips and released glittering blue phosphorous across the field. The acidic properties hissed and sizzled on the forced combatants, but it was a far less tragedy than what Yared intended.

  Ram broke from a small band of AFO operatives and climbed the hill to their group.

  “Stop this,” Tox begged, still attempting to break the chains and free himself. “It’s murder!”

  With furtive words to a soldier on Tox’s right, Ram eyed the macabre scene without an ounce of emotion.

  “This isn’t you!” Tox growled at him. “Where is your conscience? You’re a soldier—do something. Protect the weak!”

  Ram’s green eyes flashed. “Who defines that? Who determines this one is weak, that one strong? Is it muscles or the heart or—”

  “When did you become double-minded? You’re a warrior. It’s in your blood—”

  “The strain is in my blood!” Ram indicated over his shoulder with a nod. “As it is in each Nizari gathered. A cruel and debilitating curse.”

  “And you would not will that pain on anyone, yet you stand by while they kill people with those arrows, a similarly cruel death.”

  “It’s much quicker than what I’ll suffer.”

  “You cannot—this—what happened to you?” This was not the same man he’d called friend and brother. And it awakened a new fear in him for Haven. “I swear on every holy thing that if anything happens to Haven . . .” Tox trembled at the thought, out of both horror and fury. “You were my friend.”

  Ram drifted closer, taking in the scene. “It had to end.”

  “Our friendship or—”

  Gunfire strafed the air, and jerked Tox around.

  “Sir,” someone barked to Ram, “they’re in the valley.”

  Ram pivoted and stared down over the landscape. Tiny bursts of light betrayed the gunfire.

  “Ram!” Yared Khalon shouted over the din. “Bring him. It’s time!”

  A spark came from another location to Tox’s eleven. Then another to
his nine. The rain of arrows slowed, and Tox realized someone was killing the archers.

  His heart tripped at the thought. “Coordinated,” he muttered, even as Ram unlocked the chain anchor and drew Tox down into the valley.

  The guard with Ram collapsed to the ground, dead, exit wound at the front of his head. Shocked, Tox glanced from the body to Ram, then over his shoulder. Scanned the blue-black shadows not yet exposed by dawn.

  Hope breathed. They were alive!

  Wraith.

  They’d snuck into position hours ago after barely evading the attack that wiped away the face of the mountain in Latvia. It had been close. Too close. But they were alive. That was what mattered.

  Leif had been through a lot of things, but this took the cake and the ice cream. He trained his sights on Tox and Ram. “Eyes on Blue One,” he subvocalized from behind a barrier on the hillside. The first shot fired had exposed their position, so they’d deliberately targeted the security around the tents, where their people were being held, then focused on liberating Tox.

  “Copy that, Wraith One. Stay eyes-out and keep him alive,” Rodriguez ordered from the bird, thirty-three thousand feet up.

  “Roger that.” Maintaining cover kept Leif’s head and life intact. To his three, Maangi chambered another round, sighted an archer, then released another kill shot.

  “They’re making it easy,” Thor muttered about the archers.

  “Open season on AFO operators,” Leif agreed. Each time an arrow launched, it left a trail that pointed right back to its shooter. He scanned the field again, verified Tox was still only with Ram, then checked the battle. Saw a shadow looming ahead. Zigzag movement. He muttered an oath.

  He eased back the trigger. The sonic boom thudded against his chest, the stock smacking his shoulder. The person who’d been trying to gain their position tumbled back down the hillside.

  “Archer down,” Cell called, spotting for Maangi and Leif.

  “Wraith, you have active shooters looking for you,” General Rodriguez said. “Stay low and eyes-out.”

  “A little late,” Leif said, targeting another encroaching figure, “but thanks.” Boom!

  “Dudes,” Cell grunted through the comms, “what’s Ram doing with Tox?”

  Silence dropped as they all swung their attention there.

  “What the fluff?” Cell growled. “Is Ram . . . did he switch sides?”

  “No way,” Maangi said. “He’s loyal.”

  “Yeah, but to who?” Leif asked, noting Ram wasn’t just with Tox, he was steering him. “That’s a problem.” He tightened up his scope, following as Ram delivered Tox into the middle of the chaos. Right to Nur Abidaoud. “Command . . . ?”

  “You have targets, Wraith. Take care of them.”

  Leif hesitated. If he took a shot and missed . . . Then don’t miss. Another round. “One less AFO.”

  Realigning his sights and targeting another archer, he noticed something in the background. He shifted his sight marginally. Fifty yards past the archers stood a huddle of people who were joined by Ram and Tox. At the center of the chaos, Nur and another guy.

  Was he reading this right? It seemed Abidaoud looked to the shorter guy for direction. They drew Tox to the center, and as if on cue, crowds filled in around them, leaving an open swath in the middle. Ram broke from the group and positioned himself a few yards in front of Tox.

  “Command, you seeing this?” Nausea swirled in Leif’s gut. “This looks like a battle of champions.”

  “You like quotes, do you not, Mr. Russell?” Nur asked, smirking. “How about, ‘the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants’?”

  This wasn’t what Thomas Jefferson had meant. Grinding his teeth, Tox forced his gaze to Nur. “‘I would prefer even to fail with honor than to win by cheating.’”

  Confused glances bounced among the group around him.

  “Sophocles,” Tox said. “Want me to explain what honor means?”

  Nur laughed, but Ram’s father motioned to someone. “Zoryana, Barry, the weapons please.”

  Tox startled at the last name. Then he saw the squirrelly form of Barry Attaway stalk forward with a long, thin wooden box in his arms. “You—”

  “Tox.” Barry curled his lip. “It’s so good not to have to pretend anymore that I like you or your brother.”

  “Feeling’s mutual,” Tox snarled. “Then again, I never did pretend to like you. I knew what you were when you bought my silence.”

  “Much easier than I’d expected.”

  “What about Brooke? How can you justify killing her?”

  “It was me or her.”

  “You selfish—” His fist was faster than his words. It connected violently with Barry’s nose.

  “Augh!” The traitor staggered, cupping his spurting nose.

  Guards hauled Tox back a few steps, but he felt the immense pleasure of that punch. Of seeing Barry bleed. “That won’t be the only blood you spill before this is over, Barry.”

  “Get on with it,” Yared snapped.

  Rage tremored through Tox as the sniveling Barry presented Ram with the box.

  The woman Zoryana came to Tox and held out a similar box, then lifted the lid. A sword stretched elegantly along a satin premolded form. His gaze hit Ram, who drew out a reassembled Adama Herev.

  Holy crap. Dueling? They intended a duel for Tox and his best friend. To fight Ram. “Are you kidding me? We’re soldiers, not knights!”

  “Both are warriors, and this day and method are critical to the liberation of our bloodline,” Yared said.

  “I’m not doing this. We’re not doing this.” Tox glanced at Ram, who rolled his shoulders, readying himself. Hot dread exploded through Tox’s veins. “Ram.” He tried to shove away the fear. “Don’t do this. Please.”

  Ram simply stepped away from Attaway and shifted to the side, swiping the sword through the air. It seared and screamed with his swift moves. When had he learned swordplay?

  “I will not fight you,” Tox said, refusing to accept his friend was so far gone. Refusing to believe his brother-in-arms would cut him down.

  “Then you will die,” Yared Khalon pronounced. “Which serves all of us quite well.”

  Tox’s gaze caught on the scrollwork that wrapped Ram’s fingers and knuckles. He saw the ampoule. “Thefarie trusted you to do the right thing.”

  Finally, Ram met his gaze.

  “Brother . . .” Tox said, unable to think of anything that would convince him. Anything that would be more than delay tactics. He would delay until eternity if possible.

  “Champions, take your mark!”

  53

  — VALLEY OF ELAH —

  Distraction killed. And this time, Tzivia really hoped it did. The entirety of the valley’s participants—those who were still alive and not engaged in combat—stood around Ram and Tox. She could do nothing for them. But maybe she could help Haven and the others.

  Slipping out of the crowd, she skirted the perimeter, then darted past the enormous generator truck that fueled the thousand-watt lights shining on the battle of champions. After one more glance at the two men who were her brothers, she took off again—and her foot slipped. With a strangled yelp, she caught herself on the large steel bumper of the truck, only to note a smell emanating around her.

  She took a step—squish! She lifted her foot, then put it back down in another sluice of sodden earth. Sniffing.

  Her gaze jumped to the large tanker, traced its rounded hull, and froze. A hole from a bullet gaped in its side. Petroleum slushed onto the ground, saturating the earth.

  Panic welled. She stood in a sea of gasoline on a field where AFO archers were loosing phosphorous arrows.

  I’ll go up in a ball of fiery glory.

  No. Not if she could help it. Careful of her steps, Tzivia moved as fast as possible without slipping. She grew more confident when she no longer heard the squish of her steps. Halfway up the hill, she started running, eyes o
n the tent where Haven and Chiji were held.

  A dozen paces, and she’d clear it. Getting caught put them in danger. And Tox would never forgive her. Of course, none of them would anyway. She’d abandoned them, lied to them—all for a father who had not fled for his life but for his own selfish gain. So he could slaughter people.

  And I helped him reassemble the sword.

  Shaking her head, Tzivia aimed for the tent opening.

  A large shape blurred to her left. She planted a foot, ready to spar.

  Thud! He landed at her feet a second before she registered the splat of warmth across her face.

  Someone had shot him.

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! She darted into the tent.

  Haven turned, and her eyes widened.

  Chiji loomed faithfully beside his charge. “Behind you,” he warned.

  But Tzivia had felt the guard. She stepped back, skimmed a glance, and drove her elbow into his face. The crack resounded through the tent, but she wouldn’t trust that to stop him. She pivoted and threw a hard right at his face.

  He caught it, but she flipped his grip. Violently, she twisted his arm behind him, around, and up his spine. Another crack, this one of tendon and bone separating, made him howl. In control of him, she slammed a palm heel strike into his face. He dropped backward, unconscious. Maybe dead.

  Quickly, she searched for the keys to the cage and yanked them off his belt loop, tearing it. At the cage, she rammed the key into the slot. Tzivia flung open the gate and stepped back. Her periphery warned her of another guard.

  Launching into a jump-spin hook kick, she saw the face too late and let out a strangled cry.

  The man ducked.

  She landed awkwardly, sucking in a breath.

  “Lamb,” he said.

  “Omar!” Not caring about the emotional display, Tzivia threw herself at him. Tightened her arms around his neck, strangling him. Wanting to get as close as possible, but it wasn’t enough. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  His burly arms encircled her frame. “You are well.” His voice rumbled through his chest and hers. “That is what matters.”