Against the Fading of the Light (Action of Purpose, 3)

by Stu Jones

  The giant reached the Jeep and opened Kane’s door. His surprise at Kane’s tearful face, which was now morphing into joyous laughter, caused Courtland to look to Ari in confusion.

  “They’re alive! My kids are alive, man!” Kane blurted out.

  “What?”

  “Ari saw them. She saw them,” he mumbled through the tears.

  Courtland immediately responded by wordlessly pulling Kane from his seat and shaking his friend in a great big hug. The infectiousness of the giant’s booming laughter drew the rest of their group out of their vehicles and into the street.

  Winston swung his legs out of the car and watched the group cheering and hugging in the middle of the road. Time was growing short. The Coyotes would soon return and butcher these good people. He bit at this fingernails, cracked his knuckles, and tried with feeble determination not to throw up. Swallowing hard, Winston produced a fake smile and walked slowly toward what would now be an unavoidable but cherished moment of celebration—for everyone who didn’t know what lay ahead.

  14

  QUEENASHANO DISMOUNTED HIS unshod and unremarkable-looking mustang. By all considerations, it was one of the most nondescript horses he had ever seen. But he was old enough to know that, in the ways of life, looks can many times be deceiving. Just as this ugly horse was also one of the fastest he had encountered, a young boy, an outsider, who’d claimed to be half Comanche had proven himself to be a remarkably skilled warrior, tactician, and survivor.

  The war chief stepped to the edge of the crevice, rubbed his hairless chin, and twisted his face into an expression that melded astonishment with confusion. It was as though fate needed him to learn a lesson from this. Nodding his head, the war chief took a moment to recount the facts.

  This boy who called himself Tynuk had arrived unceremoniously with a quiet demeanor just a few weeks prior. He had claimed to be the half-breed son of Nachona Yakeschi, Queenashano’s own brother. The boy had also claimed to be the immediate student of the great Nuk’Chala. Queenashano turned and reached into a bag that was tied to his bedroll. He removed the dusty war belt that the boy had produced, claiming it had belonged to Nuk’Chala. Working the leather, beads, and thread beneath his worn fingers, he looked the belt over closely for any tell. There was no doubt in his mind. He had even had another elder verify his thoughts. The belt was legitimate. But the question remained—how had this boy come to be in possession of it?

  Queenashano peered into the crevice to where the body of yet another warrior lay against the blood-soaked sand of the ditch. The child clearly was special. There was no other way to consider it. As bizarre as it all seemed, he could not help but believe that this boy had somehow truly been the protégé of Nuk’Chala, one of the great sages of his people, a relic of their oldest ways and deepest secrets. A man unsurpassed in skill and wisdom—a man who just happened to be Queenashano’s uncle.

  The war-party leader cursed under his breath and allowed himself to remember his uncle deeply for the first time in a long while.

  Their final words to each other had not been ones of love. Nuk’Chala had become infatuated with the idea that the Great Spirit lived inside him. That it was somehow invested in him. And though every member of the tribe had strongly believed that the old man had begun to lose his mind, there was no question that his strength of belief empowered him. He had been the very best of them, until he had strayed from the direction Queenashano felt they should go. In a moment of fury between uncle and nephew, Queenashano, with the support of the tribe, demanded the old man renounce his love for the Great Spirit. When the old man refused, he was cast out and threatened with death if he ever returned.

  Queenashano took a moment and observed the awe on the faces of his warriors and the uncontrolled fury on the face of his own son, Neraquassi, upon seeing another body of their own and knowing that this outsider had prevailed, yet again.

  No, Nuk’Chala may not have returned in the flesh, but something of him had. The boy was a reminder of the past, of their people’s waywardness. They had strayed from the oldest ways, and this was their punishment. And if Queenashano was correct, this boy, his own nephew, would survive the trials of the ancients and supersede Neraquassi to become…

  “Father, what are we waiting for?” Neraquassi fumed. “By standing around, we are losing ground to this child!”

  Queenashano reluctantly acknowledged the impatience of his son with a staying motion of his hand. The boy had not survived the trials yet. There were two tests left, the final obstacles that the boy must overcome in order to complete the trials. A few days ago Queenashano would have thought this feat impossible, but now the war chief was not so sure.

  “Bring up the wolves.” Queenashano motioned as several men pulled a wooden cage forward. Inside it, three large, but skinny, gray wolves shuffled back and forth, snarling and biting at the wooden bars. “Everyone, behind the cage,” Queenashano called out. The cage was pushed forward, its mouth facing the direction the boy had fled. One of the men pulling the cage wordlessly extended his hand to Queenashano. The war chief reached into this satchel and produced a piece of clothing he had taken off of the boy when they had stripped him. After he handed it over, the silent man tossed it through the bars, where the wolves snarled and foamed, tearing the cloth to shreds.

  “They will stay the course?” Queenashano asked.

  “They are hungry for his blood, war chief.” The silent man spoke at last. “They will not stop until they have tasted it.”

  Queenashano didn’t choose to question the trainer further. “Good. We will see if this ‘Wolf Born’ can survive his namesake.”

  With a nod, the man yanked the strap that held the door closed. In a bawling, whirling maw of fur and teeth, the imprisoned, starving creatures burst forth from the cage. Without a rearward glance, they fled at full speed down the path the boy had traveled and away from their captors.

  “The wolves will finish him, Neraquassi, but in the event that they do not, he will at least be weakened from fighting them. I want you to be the final solution. Take three of your best and double up on horseback, but when you are close, separate. Two will go on foot, and two will remain mounted. Use your bows and short spears and overwhelm your prey in the event that the wolves do not succeed.”

  Neraquassi gave a sharp nod; the acknowledgment that this was his opportunity to finally prove himself glowed in his features.

  “Go. We will give you a head start and follow on horseback. Ensure that he is dead by the time I arrive.”

  Neraquassi nodded sharply again and quickly mounted his short, dappled mustang. He wordlessly jabbed his finger into the air at three separate warriors: one took his weapons in hand and mounted Neraquassi’s steed, and the other two mounted another. With a cry from their riders, the horses were off with uncanny swiftness, delivering their human burdens across the barren dessert.

  Queenashano waited until the men were out of sight and the dust began to clear before he called over his fastest rider. Placing a hand on the man’s opposite shoulder, in a method indicating that important information was about to be delivered, he spoke just low enough that no one else would hear the message conveyed.

  “Take your best horse and ride to meet Penateka and the rest of our people who have made camp in the north. Tell them to break camp and meet us where the sun kisses the horizon in the place of our ancestors. He will understand my meaning.”

  The young rider, understanding the implication of rallying the whole tribe, began to stammer, “But that means you expect this boy to…”

  Queenashano nodded and made a sharp motion for the young rider to be silent. The rider mounted and was gone in a matter of seconds.

  Queenashano was beginning to understand that there might be far more to this boy than the eye could behold. For if he was correct, this Tynuk possessed something great, something that had been foreseen and predicted many years ago by the wisest of the ancient priests: a power of belief so strong that it would take their people
back to the glory days of old, back to the oldest ways, to times they had all long since forgotten.

  His father was a fool, an old man who had forgotten the way of things. His unrelenting belief in that stupid prophecy was what blinded him. Neraquassi saw this Tynuk for what he was: a lucky child. Alone and afraid, the boy now fought solely for survival, as any hunted animal in his position would.

  Neraquassi spurred his mustang onward, his companion hanging wordlessly on to him as they rode west, following the boy’s trail. Whether the wolves finished him or not, it wouldn’t take long for them to find him.

  There was nothing special about this child who had tried to lay claim to their proud heritage, not a single bone or breath. He was not on a special mission or empowered by anything beyond his own will. He was not of the same bloodline as Neraquassi and his father, and he certainly was not the one the prophecy spoke of. It was beyond absurd that a simple half-breed boy could be the one.

  Neraquassi shook the tasteless thought from his head. The fact that the boy had survived what should have been a fatal dose of poison meant nothing. He would be quickly hunted down like a dog and surrendered back unto the earth. Big Father was not interested in the games of men. Neraquassi spat and glanced at the brightened patch of thick, dark cloud cover where the sun lay cloaked in the midmorning sky. Big Father had but created them and then set them about their ways, caring no further about their deeds or misdeeds. Neraquassi’s destiny was his own, and he would not be controlled by the will of some disinterested God.

  Soon, Queenashano would see the truth. He would be blind not to recognize Neraquassi’s skill, ambition, and ruthlessness. Neraquassi would be the next war chief of the last survivors of their great people. It was his birthright and his claim. He would, without incident, take the life of this child, setting in motion the events that he knew would follow. There was nothing now that could keep him from claiming his rightful place among their people. Only a boy, tired, scared, and alone, now remained between him and his destiny.

  The thunderous boom from above him caused Nick Corvaleski to drop his canteen. The container struck the ground and bounced, splashing water across the floor. He stood fearfully rooted in place at the sound of what was, without a doubt, the sound of someone or something breaching the concrete barriers at the main gate. Suddenly the fear of what he had worked so hard to avoid all this time—imminent contact with the outside world—was overwhelming. And it sounded very much to him like the outside world had not come in a display of peace.

  “Hit it again,” Malak growled, dropping his heavy, muscular arm. The bandit with dreadlocks and a bandanna over his face reloaded the Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade into the launcher and shouldered it. With a whoosh and another deafening concussion, the final concrete barrier blew into a hundred scattered chunks that haphazardly fell as they littered the entrance to the Glen Canyon Hydroelectric Dam.

  Malak pointed sharply at his second. “Saxon, take thirty men and secure the arch bridge that the highway travels, parallel to the dam. Its position will give us a second angle of fire on both entrances, as well as give us control of the highway through here—and anyone traveling it.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Malak swung his arm in an arc over his small army of over three hundred. “Take the dam. Subdue any personnel here who may be of value and execute any others who try to resist you. This facility now belongs to me.” He turned his attention toward the dam, grinning malevolently. “Do not hide your secrets from me, my dear.”

  Malak’s lustful thoughts of limitless power were sharply interrupted as a beaten Datsun pickup truck screeched to a stop behind them. The smoking engine sputtered and died with a cough, and the occupants exited quickly with their hands in the air.

  Malak’s Coyotes rushed the vehicle with howled screams as the occupants were pulled to the ground. One of the men screamed as his throat was unceremoniously cut in a spray of blood as the thugs laughed.

  “Do another!” a bandit screamed, mad with lust for blood.

  “Lord Malak!” a voice screamed amid the shouts for death.

  Malak turned his attention to the boil of madness around the truck.

  “Kill that bitch!”

  “Lord Malak, I have information!”

  “Stop!” Malak commanded, and the furious mass of squirming bodies ceased immediately. “Let her up.”

  The men pulled Shana to her feet, and a broad smile spread across Malak’s face.

  “Well, well, look who decided to show back up. Did you forget where we said to meet, my dear Shana?”

  Shana bowed her head before the imposing tattooed warlord. “No, my lord. I was wounded carrying out your orders. I couldn’t make the rally point before you had gone.”

  Malak nodded contemplatively. “And of what use are you to me now?”

  “I faithfully carried out your orders, my lord. I returned to Kane’s group and assisted in their division, a move that helped to separate Kane from the others. It was all done for you, Lord.”

  Malak brooded. “What a loyal soldier. But why should you still be valuable to me?”

  “I have information you will want to hear.”

  The bandits around her snickered, all knowing that she would be dead instantly if this information wasn’t highly valuable.

  “Out with it,” Malak uttered plainly, crossing his massive arms over the tattoo of a large, coiled viper in the center of his chest.

  Shana swallowed. “Kane is alive. His group pursues you as we speak.”

  An otherworldly hush fell over the group.

  “You lie!” Malak said, enraged, his already-large form swelling.

  “No, Lord!” Shana fell to her knees. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

  Malak’s eyes flared with rage as he remembered what the Voice had said to him: Malak’sssss been sooooooo faithful. But he never seems to get the job done…

  Balling his fists, it took every ounce of control he had to keep from lashing out and destroying the lot of scum that stood before him. The massive warlord took a deep breath and then another as he regained control of his emotions. His normally fearless Coyotes cowered before him, anticipating the outpouring of his volcanic temper. Slowly he mastered himself and lowered his head in meditation.

  Kane was alive. It couldn’t be possible, and yet, why would the woman make up such a foolishly audacious lie? If Kane was alive, then he was surely coming for his children.

  Malak looked at Shana, the weight of his words poured into her soul like cement. “Tell me everything you know. Leave nothing out. Your existance hangs on this moment.”

  Shana nodded submissively and recounted her story, moment by moment, up to where she now stood. Malak listened closely, and when she finished, he waited for a reflective moment before speaking.

  “Is that all?”

  Shana bowed low. “Yes, Lord. Kane and about thirty survivors from his group are traveling west on I-40. They are coming here. It’s how we found you.”

  “Which of them survived?” Malak intoned.

  “Kane, Courtland, Jenna, Dagen—”

  “Stop—what did you just say?” Malak looked stunned at the realization.

  “Kane, Court—”

  “The last name you said.”

  Shana swallowed. “A man named Dagen. He’s been with them since I first arrived—sort of a loner. His legs are jacked up, so he uses crutches to get around. He’s Jenna’s pet project for some—”

  “Silence.” Malak groaned, his face the visage of pure hate. So, Dagen, his own lieutenant from the early days, was now traitorously a part of this group that opposed him. The Christian woman had worn even him down at last with all her talk of grace and salvation for all. Malak boiled with dark power, millions of years of hate flowing within his veins. He ground his teeth and longed to pull the traitor’s heart from his breast. Yes, soon enough.

  “What about the Indian boy and his beast?”

  “They’ve been nowhere to be found since befo
re the mutant siege, my lord. They are not with the group now, and there is no one else of interest.”

  Malak raised himself, brimming with terrible power over the woman. “So this is what you bring to me—news of these insufferable Christians? How they keep on and on, like a fucking disease.”

  “There is something else, Lord, something that will please you.”

  Malak’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, do tell,” he said mockingly.

  “I have a man inside now. He is working with us and has given me detailed information about Kane’s group—where they’re traveling and what they’re planning. If you give me some men, I will slaughter them before they ever make it to this place. You will never even have to lay eyes upon them again. It will be as though we never had this conversation.”

  Malak considered it long, before answering with a nod. “Do it. Take the men you need and end this blight upon my kingdom. Do not fail me again, woman.”

  “I won’t, my lord!” Shana turned gratefully and quickly began to gather men, arms, and vehicles for her assault.

  Malak walked slowly toward the dam, his thoughts centering on what rested deep inside, an all-powerful cosmic device, the same device the Voice had spoken to him about. The timetable had changed. He would have to move quickly now to activate the Machine and put the Master’s plan into motion.

  There was no doubt in his mind that though Shana’s move would slow and maybe even cripple Kane’s group, her efforts would ultimately fail, and Malak would be forced to confront Kane and Courtland once again in a fight to the death. And though he had superior men and technology and a fearsome, unbridled dark power flowing within him, he also now had just the smallest twinge of doubt that the champions of God were capable of being destroyed at all. And this, more than anything, stirred a restless fear deep inside his heart of darkness.

  Part 2

  A Time for War

  But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.