by Ted Dekker
Thomas grabbed Johan’s arm. “Horses, we’ll need horses from the auxiliary Guard stable,” he whispered. “They’ll be saddled and—”
But Johan knew all of this and was already running up the bank. The diseased Forest People scrambled out of his way. He disappeared into a row of houses.
“All of you who will follow Justin in his death and find new life, drown!” Thomas cried. “Drown now!”
The Horde leader was marching faster.
Ciphus remained silent. He too saw Qurong. He too saw the Horde army that had them surrounded, many thousands, mounted on horses, sickles ready. They were under a new order, all of them.
“I beg you! Remember him! This is the day of your deliverance!” Thomas shouted. Behind him the water splashed. Mikil and Jamous had risen.
His frustration boiled to the surface. “What’s wrong with you? Are you blind? It’s life, you fools! Drown!”
Mikil laughed.
Two children ran down the shore. Lucy and Billy, the two from the Valley of Tuhan. They went in with Marie and Samuel. On their heels several grown men and women, maybe half a dozen, one from here, one from there. They splashed into the water and sank below the surface. One sputtered to the surface and clamored out of the lake. His skin hadn’t changed. Two more broke for the lake.
“Enough!” Qurong stood with his fists on his hips, legs spread. “Enter the lake and consider yourself an enemy that we will hunt down and destroy.”
“You are Tanis!” Thomas said. “You drank Teeleh’s water and brought us the disease. Now you’ll wage war on Elyon’s children? Justin has brought us peace.”
“I have brought you peace!” His voice seemed too loud for a man. It hit Thomas then—this was Teeleh speaking through his firstborn. He was playing the spoiled child who wanted to be as great as Elyon. It had always been Teeleh’s way; now, having killed Justin, he would wage war on this unexpected remnant. He would kill the life that Justin had made possible in his death.
“We are one!” Qurong cried with arms spread. “I am peace!”
“You are at peace with Teeleh, not Elyon. Not Justin.”
“Blasphemy!” Ciphus cried. “You are banished. Any man or woman or child who bathes in this lake will be banished!”
Qurong threw back his hood to expose long knotted dreadlocks over white flaking skin. “Not banished,” he roared. “Killed!”
Behind Thomas, the water splashed as others came out of the lake. Oblivious to the exchange, several of the children giggled. Rachelle hurried them from the water with hushed tones.
Thomas scanned the beach. There was only one way clear of the Horde warriors, and that was past Ciphus. Even then, Qurong would give chase.
Where are you, Johan?
A lone man broke from the crowd, ran straight down the shore, and dove in defiance of Qurong’s command. William? If Thomas wasn’t mistaken, his lieutenant, William, had just joined them.
Where was Johan? How long did it take to open a gate for a few horses? He had to stall Qurong. “If you are with Elyon, then would you condemn women and children to death because they don’t have your disease?”
“It is you who have the disease,” Qurong said. “You are albinos with poisoned flesh and sickened minds.” Spittle flew from his mouth. His eyes were white-hot with anger. Why so furious as this for a few naked prey? “Your disease will divide us and threaten my kingdom, and for that you will drown!”
“We just have drowned!” Mikil said. She burst into laughter. “You want to drown us again?”
Thomas held out his hand to quiet her. “Get them ready,” he said quietly. “We ride through the forest, north.”
“Horses?”
“Johan.”
She understood.
“We’ll see if you survive my drowning,” Qurong said. “Take them!”
His guard broke around him and marched forward.
“Wait!” Thomas shouted. “I have something to exchange!” He reached into his tunic, slipped the leather book from where he’d carried it, and lifted it high.
“A Book of History.”
Qurong lifted his hand, and his soldiers stopped. He took a step forward. In his own twisted mind this was a sacred book, but what would he do to own it again? It was, after all, just an artifact.
“You have said that no one is permitted to enter the lake,” Thomas said. “If I throw this book in these poisoned waters, will you break your own law and enter to find it?”
“Lay it down.”
Johan emerged from the village behind the people, leading a dozen horses. He took one look at the situation and kicked his mount.
Thomas spoke loudly to cover his approach.
“I will lay this book down if you will give me one minute to plead my case in front of the entire Council, as is the custom of our people in a case of this . . .”
The sound of Johan and his horses galloping down the bank was enough to turn every head. The Scabs had just made sense of his sudden appearance and were moving to intercept when their old commander thundered past Qurong.
Thomas shoved the blank Book of History into his tunic, then spun and grabbed the closest child. “Get them on the horses, hurry!”
Rachelle lifted Marie into a saddle behind William. She grabbed Samuel by the arm, jerked him from his feet, and swung him up with William’s help. Then she turned for another child.
“Stop them!” Qurong shouted.
“Go, Rachelle! I’ll get the others. Ride!”
But she ran for a fourth child.
They were no longer inhibited by the painful disease that slowed the Scabs. Before the first warrior reached them, they’d swung into saddles and were galloping toward the Council, which stood frozen.
All but Thomas and Rachelle, who’d helped the children.
“Mount! Hurry!” Rachelle wasn’t going to make it! Thomas ran his horse at the closest warrior, who pulled up and took a meager swipe at him. He ducked the sickle easily enough. Now his wife had mounted.
“Ride! Ride!”
Out of nowhere a single arrow cut through the air and plowed into his mount’s neck. The animal reared in pain and Thomas clung to the saddle.
“Thomas!” Rachelle screamed. She knew as well as he that this wound would finish the horse. And the Scabs were now rushing in. A blade struck the rear quarter of his horse.
Rachelle spun her own mount around. “Jump!” She raced up to him, released the reins, and shifted back off the saddle, holding on to the pommel with one hand.
It was a move the Guard knew well; horses often fell in battle. They learned early that at any speed, jumping from one horse to another was nearly impossible unless the rider could hold himself fast in the stirrups and catch the jumper between him and the horse’s neck.
Thomas leaped, slammed into her horse’s neck, and crashed into the saddle. He bent low and grabbed the reins. His wife hugged him around the waist and held tight.
But now they were going the wrong way. He reined the horse around and galloped to catch the others. It had all happened in a few seconds. Johan had just cleared the Council, but Justin’s followers were far from safety.
The hundred Scabs above the beach were spurring their horses to intercept.
“Jamous, William, on your right!” Thomas cried. He veered straight for the Horde. “Hold on!” Rachelle tightened her grip around his belly.
Jamous and William broke from the others and headed for the army. Johan glanced back, took quick stock, and led the others away from the danger at a full sprint.
Thomas leaned forward and screamed as he would in pitched battle. Every Scab soldier there had undoubtedly seen this mighty warrior felling their comrades, and the sight of him and two of his lieutenants racing directly for them caused them to pull on their reins.
The delay was just enough to give Johan the time he needed to lead the others into the trees.
“Break!” Thomas, Jamous, and William veered to the left on the command and raced for the trees a
fter Johan.
It was then, not two horse lengths from the trees, that a soft thump punctuated the pounding hoofs.
Rachelle groaned behind him.
Another thump.
An arrow smacked into a tree on his right.
Rachelle’s grip on his midsection loosened.
“Rachelle?”
She grunted, and there was the unmistakable sound of pain in that grunt.
“Rachelle? Talk to me!”
In answer, a dozen arrows clipped through the branches. And then they were into the forest. His wife had been shot! He had to stop.
“Rachelle!”
The Horde was in heavy pursuit—he couldn’t stop.
“Answer me!” he screamed. “Rachelle!”
Nothing. Her hands were slipping, and he grabbed them with his left hand. “William!”
His lieutenant glanced back. “Ride, Thomas! Ride!”
“Rachelle’s been shot!” he cried.
William immediately pulled to the side and eased up. Thomas galloped up to him, still at full speed. They dodged several trees and broke into a meadow. William studied the limp body behind Thomas. Rachelle’s limp body.
What Thomas saw in his lieutenant’s green eyes drove a stake of raw dread through his heart.
THOMAS VEERED off the path just long enough to check Rachelle’s pulse. She was alive. But unconscious. Three arrows protruded from her back. He started to sob, still seated on the saddle with the sound of the Horde less than a hundred meters behind. William strapped her wrists together around Thomas’s belly, and they rode hard to catch the others.
Elyon, I beg you heal her, he prayed. I beg you save my wife.
The others didn’t know. Samuel and Marie rode ahead with Mikil and Jamous, who’d taken Marie to lighten Mikil’s load. Every minute, Thomas checked Rachelle’s wrist for a pulse. Alive, still alive.
William rode behind, silent. Even if they could stop, there was nothing that could be done for Rachelle. She needed rest. She needed to stop riding altogether, but with this pursuit none of that was an option.
You saved me, Justin. You will save my wife.
They had died and come back to life in the lake. Why? So that Rachelle could be killed by the Horde? It made no sense, which could only mean she wasn’t going to die. He needed her! The children needed her. The tribe needed her. She was the sweetest person, the wisest, the loveliest, the most loving of them all!
She would not be dying.
William pulled up beside him after twenty minutes. “There are about two hundred in pursuit,” he said. “Johan and I will lead them south and join you at the apple grove to the north.”
Thomas nodded.
His lieutenant raced ahead and spoke briefly to Johan, who looked back in alarm. He veered to the right and vanished into the trees with William. They would circle back, engage the Horde, and then draw them south according to classic Guard methods.
Thomas rode hard for as long as he dared. Surely William and Johan had engaged the Horde by now. He felt his wife’s pulse for the hundredth time. With the horse bouncing under them, the task was now nearly impossible. Maybe her pulse had grown too weak for him to feel without stopping.
“Mikil!”
Thomas pulled his horse up before his second could respond. She saw him stop and called to the others, who had just entered a small clearing.
Thomas untied his wife’s wrists, slipped off the horse, and eased her down to the grass. She lay on her side, still. He felt her neck with a trembling hand, desperate to feel the familiar pulse he’d pressed his face against so many times.
It wasn’t there.
The others had come behind him, and he heard their startled cries, but his mind didn’t care about them right now. He only wanted one thing. He wanted his wife back. But she was lying on the ground and he couldn’t find her pulse.
She’s dead, Thomas.
No, she couldn’t be dead. She was Rachelle, the one who’d been healed by Justin. The one who had led them into the lake. The one who had shown him how to love and fight and lead and live.
“Mama?”
Marie. Tears spilled from his eyes at the sound of his daughter’s voice.
“Mama!”
Both of his children fell to their knees over their mother. He tried one more time to feel her pulse, and this time he knew she was dead.
He sank to his haunches and let a terrible anguish wash over him. He drew a deep breath, lifted his chin, and began to sob at the sky.
Mikil was working over the body; a woman was hugging the children, who were also crying; Thomas could do nothing but cry. He’d seen so many die in battle, but today, in the wake of breathing Elyon’s water, this death felt somehow different. Raw and terrible and more painful than he ever could have imagined.
Thomas slumped down beside his wife, curled into a ball, and wept.
Mikil took charge. “Mount. Lead them to the apple grove. Wait for us there.”
They left him alone. He knew he had to continue. Not all of the Horde would have followed Johan. They would be coming.
He invited them now. Come and kill me as well.
I have a lot riding on you, Thomas of Hunter.
The voice spoke crystal clear in his mind. He opened his eyes. Rachelle’s back was a foot from his face. Still.
He closed his eyes, mind numb.
My daughter is with me now. I need her.
“Give her back,” Thomas whispered.
“What?” Mikil’s voice said.
“Give her back!” he moaned.
For a long time there was only silence. They should have left long ago, but Mikil kept watch and let him lie in grief.
Then the voice spoke again.
Ride, Thomas. Ride with me.
Something was happening in his chest. He opened his eyes and focused on a strange warmth that spread through his lungs and up his neck.
He sat up.
Meet me at the desert, Thomas. Ride.
“Thomas?” Mikil knelt beside him. “I’m sorry, it’s . . . it’s a terrible tragedy. We should leave.”
Thomas stood. The ache in his heart throbbed, but there was this other voice, and he knew that voice. It had spoken to him in the emerald lake long ago. It had spoken in the red lake today. Justin had died. They’d all died. Now Rachelle had died again. But she was alive, because the voice said she was alive. If not here, then somewhere else.
“Help me with her, Mikil.”
They put Rachelle’s body on the horse in front of Thomas, facing him with her face buried in his shoulder and her arms by his side. He held his wife and he rode and he cried tears that soaked her hair.
But his mourning was for his children and for himself, not for Rachelle. Not for Elyon’s daughter. She was with Justin.
When they arrived at the apple orchard, Johan and William were waiting with the others. Johan wept for his sister. He kissed her and smoothed her hair and told them all that he had betrayed her.
“Where are we going?” Mikil asked.
“To the desert,” Thomas said, nudging his horse. “We ride to the desert.”
31
TO SAY that the world was descending into mad chaos would not be an overstatement, not in anyone’s book. Four days had passed since Mike Orear had spilled his guts on CNN, since France had declared martial law, since Monique had returned with the magic elixir firmly in mind, since Thomas Hunter had been killed by a bullet to the forehead. Whether the headlines were in English or German or Spanish or Russian or any other language, they all boiled down to one of a dozen bold statements.
RAISON STRAIN THREAT CONFIRMED
WORLD ON BRINK OF WAR
OVER 5 BILLION ESTIMATED INFECTED
GLOBAL ECONOMIC SHUTDOWN
T MINUS 10 DAYS
GOD HELP US ALL
HOPE FOR ANTIVIRUS
Seeing any such headline was a surreal experience. Neither the writer nor the readers had any clue as to what any of it really meant. Nothi
ng like this had ever happened before. Nothing like this could possibly be happening now. The Raison Strain had been thrust upon the world, and all but a few natives hidden deep in tropical jungles had surely heard the news. But how many believed? Really believed?
Denial.
Naturally, the world was either in full-fledged denial or too stunned to react. This was why there were no riots. This was why there were no protests. This was why the typical ranting and raving on the airwaves hadn’t started yet.
Instead, there was an almost disconnected analysis of the situation. The world was collectively glued to the news, praying to God for the word they all knew would soon come—the announcement that Monique de Raison’s antivirus had been tested and effectively killed the virus like they all knew it would.
The president spoke to the people twice each day from the White House, calming, reassuring. Tests for the infection were assigned randomly by lottery based on Social Security number. One person in every thousand was permitted to check into the local hospital for a test. The hope that first day that certain sections of the United States had been spared the virus quickly changed to astonishment as one by one each test, each family, each neighborhood, each town and city and state came back positive. CNN used a modified electoral map to show the virus’s saturation. When infection was confirmed, the town was painted red. By the beginning of the second day, half the map was red. Twelve hours later, there was nothing to see but red.
Schools canceled classes. Despite the president’s pleading for life as usual, half of the country’s businesses closed their doors on the second day, and more were sure to follow. Transportation had all but come to a standstill. Thankfully, the public utilities continued their service with minimal staffs under direct orders from the president of the United States.
The first sign that chaos would soon threaten daily life was a run on grocery stores at 8:00 am. on the second day. Naturally. Panic would soon set in. It would be impossible to get to a store, much less find one open for business.
The second sign was the tone of the United Nations meeting that the president waited to address at this very minute. Those in attendance were a motley crew if the bags under their eyes and their wrinkled shirts were any indicator. The room was stuffed, every chair filled, every aisle crawling with aides. If there was ever a time for the global community to pull together, it was now. But the responses to the impassioned speeches thus far, from Russia, England, and now France, revealed just how far apart leaders could be when the chips were down.