by Ted Dekker
“Black magic,” a voice to his right said. The Dark Priest had slipped up on his blonde mare. Like Martyn, he wore a hooded black robe. “Their magic will be the undoing of us all.”
“You’re talking to a man who left them because he realized that they have no magic,” Martyn said.
“I’ve been visited by the Shataiki,” the religious man said without any hint that he was speaking impossibilities.
“And what did they tell you?”
“That the books are more important than the forests.”
Martyn looked down at the dead. They would leave the bodies for vultures and desert jackals who would make quick work of the flesh before the blowing sand would swallow what was left in a natural grave.
“You’d like nothing more, wouldn’t you? A few more relics for your temple? Your source of power is mystery, not magic.”
The priest sat on his horse without offering a defense. It occurred to Martyn that this druid should not be underestimated. The power of belief alone could change the course of history.
“You’ll have to forgive my skepticism,” Martyn said. “But I did live among them, and I saw no magic.”
“Because you were blind. Why else would you desert them?”
“You’re saying I was wrong?”
“I’m saying that only a fool has no belief. The Shataiki who visited me was named Alucard, advisor to Teeleh himself, and I’ll tell you that not to believe in this beast will be death for us all.”
“Really? What else did this Alucard tell you?”
“There are seven original Books of History, each tied with red twine. They belong to him. The power that goes to him who finds them cannot be fathomed. The torment of failure to find them will be far greater than losing to the Forest Guard.”
“Then search for your books,” Martyn said. “In the meantime, I’ll see that our swords don’t grow dull. We stay out of each other’s way.”
“I think you’ll need my books,” the Dark Priest said. “And I’ll undoubtedly need your sword. Perhaps a more reasonable union would be in order.”
“You’re saying that you have these books?”
“Did I say that?”
“Your Highness!” A warrior trotted in on a black steed. He was addressing the priest, Martyn realized. Calling him “Highness,” the name reserved for Qurong? The power of religion never ceased to amaze him.
“One of the men found this.” He tossed a saddlebag to the priest, who snatched it out of the air and then shot the man a glare that suggested throwing anything at him was inappropriate.
“What is it?”
“Books.”
“Books,” the priest repeated.
“The unreadable kind.”
Martyn blinked, suddenly curious. The only books the Horde could not read were the Books of History. Their contents seemed to be written in code: gibberish that made no sense. What he didn’t tell the Horde was that he was quite sure that the Forest Dwellers could read the books.
The druid opened the saddlebag and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. He quickly peeled back the scarf and stared at a dark leather cover with three sets of markings that identified the book as a Book of History.
But it was the red twine wrapped tightly around the book that sent a chill down Martyns back.
For a few beats both of them just stared.
“Thank you, soldier; you may leave,” the priest finally said.
The warrior left with a grunt.
“This is one of the original seven books?” Martyn asked.
“Yet you doubt me,” the priest said.
These books could command an army, Martyn thought. Their power is mythical, but myth can bring any army to its knees.
“It seems fortune is smiling on you tonight,” Martyn said. “I’ll give you my sword. In return I want your allegiance.”
The priest turned his hooded head toward him. His deep-set eyes were hidden by black shadow. “We need all seven,” he said. “Help me find all seven, and I’ll give you the forests on the palm of my hand.”
“What is your true name, priest?”
“No one knows my name.”
“No one except the man you’re swearing allegiance to.”
The priest hesitated, then spoke softly. “Call me what you like. You can’t accept the truth.”
“I doubt that. But if you insist, I’ll call you Witch.”
“Witch?”
“A name Thomas used to call Teeleh.”
A thin grin may have crossed the druid’s face—Martyn couldn’t tell for sure; it was too dark. “Then call me Witch.”
“You help me kill Thomas and destroy the forests, Witch. For that we need Johnis. Do that and I will help you find the other five books.”
“The other four books,” Witch said. “I now have three.”
ilvie watched Johnis, who was seated beside her on the rock on which they’d just yesterday rested the two missing Books of History. In the space of twenty-four hours he’d gone from heroic fighter riding the praise of the forests to this hunched form of shame, elbows on knees, chin in palms, silent—so silent she thought that maybe he’d actually lost his voice.
Thomas paced across the clearing, staring at Johnis, Silvie, Billos, and Darsal. He’d said he wanted them all here to hear what he had to say, even though it was Johnis who’d betrayed his trust. Silvie had fallen from grace by following Johnis, she knew. And the other two by association. If one hero could fall so far and so hard in the space of one day, there was no way to trust the other three, they would say.
“One hundred and thirty-seven dead,” Billos growled. “What were you thinking?”
“No need to pile it on. He has enough shame,” Thomas snapped, but then he stopped and faced Johnis. “What were you thinking, boy?”
Johnis didn’t budge.
Silvie had agreed to keep secret the feet that he’d lost the two books until he could sort things out. But she wasn’t sure how he expected to sort out the deaths of 137 fighters. The mourners were already crying in the streets of Middle.
“Mother or not, you have no right to lead my men into battle!” Thomas yelled. “You listening to me, pup? I don’t care if you are chosen, I have half a mind to ««choose you.”
“Please,” Johnis whispered. “Do it.”
“I will not!”
So then this chosen business Johnis has told us about is true, Silvie thought. Thomas, at least, believed him to be chosen.
Darsal frowned. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think we quite understand what he’s been chosen for.”
“To kill 137 of our own?” Billos said.
“Shut it, lad!” Thomas put his hands on his hips and glared at Johnis. “There is a prophecy we’ve followed for years. A child marked by Elyon will prove his worth and destroy the Dark One. We believed that Johnis was that child, but after today’s stunt I’m having serious doubts.”
“No need for doubts, Thomas,” a voice said from the woods. Rachelle stepped out, red tunic flowing around her calves.
Silvie watched her walk gracefully across the grass, eyes fixed on Johnis, who still didn’t budge. This woman, whom many claimed was responsible for Thomas’s fighting skills, had been the stuff of legend to Silvie. Watching the woman now, Silvie couldn’t suppress a tinge of jealousy.
“He may not be perfect,” Rachelle said. “He may be a fool at times, but he’s chosen.”
“What makes you so sure?” Billos asked. “I’ve never heard of this prophecy.”
“Only a handful of people ever knew of the prophecy,” she said. “We couldn’t afford exposing the identity of this child before he was ready. We ourselves didn’t know who it was until a week ago. Too much danger for the child.”
“He’s undoubtedly still not ready,” Thomas said.
“He’s marked. He stepped forward. He saved us from the Horde. He’s ready.” Rachelle’s tone was sweet but final.
“Speak, lad. Tell us what got into that mind of yours!”
Johnis still didn’t blink, much less lift his eyes and give the supreme commander an answer. Silvie’s heart broke for him.
“Tell him, Johnis,” Rachelle said. “Tell him how such a purebred idealist thinks and feels. How the thought of your mother’s harm makes your heart fracture into a hundred pieces. How you would cross the desert to defeat the Horde and cross ten deserts to find your mother.”
Slowly Johnis looked up from the ground. Silvie watched tears well around his soft brown eyes, then slip down his cheeks.
His face didn’t show any emotion, only his eyes, spilling tears as he stared at Rachelle. Silvie desperately wanted to reach out and put her hand on his shoulder, to give even the smallest gesture of comfort. But she couldn’t. Not in front of these others.
Instead, Rachelle walked up to him and touched his cheek tenderly, and Silvie thought he was accepting her comfort, although he showed no sign of doing so. As absurd as it seemed to Silvie, she felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t been the one to comfort him.
“You can never live down these lives on your head today,” Rachelle said, lowering her hand. “Don’t try to. Accept blame where blame is due, but don’t let this thing distract you from what you are meant to do.”
Johnis swallowed. “And what is that?” he breathed.
“Only you know.”
“As long as it’s not marching my men into madness!” Thomas said. “I know how an idealist thinks, and I know that most men on the battlefield die for misguided idealists. You’ve put me in a very difficult position.”
Johnis looked at him and started to say something, but nothing came out.
“Tell us what happened in the desert this last week,” Thomas demanded.
There it was, the question Silvie knew this would lead to. But they were sworn to secrecy about their mission and the desert they’d crossed to fulfill it.
The leafy canopy above suddenly rustled with the sound of what could only be a dozen birds simultaneously taking flight. Silvie glanced up. A black Shataiki bat, four feet in length, flew directly over them, screeching wickedly in frantic flight, chased hard by a white Roush ten feet behind.
Billos and Darsal both jerked their eyes to the sky and followed the flight. The sight of the black beast flooded Silvie with ice-cold alarm. No person could grow used to those leathery wings, the mangy body and wolflike jaws, fangs dripping with saliva. Those talons that had, only days earlier, touched her own cheeks. Those red, pupil-less eyes.
Thomas looked up, searched the sky. “What is it?”
But of course, he could see neither Shataiki nor Roush.
“Johnis told you what happened in the desert,” Silvie said. “We were taken captive. Beyond that none of us can speak; it is still too raw. You cant force us to tell you what horrors the beasts forced us to endure. We fought our way out and left the whole place burning. That’s enough.”
“That’s not good enough,” Thomas said. “Anything we can know about the Horde is to our advantage.”
“Not now,” Silvie said. “Please, sir. Its too fresh. And Johnis is our concern now,”
“Let it go, Thomas,” Rachelle said. “There is more going on here than any of us could piece together anyway.” She looked Johnis in the eyes again. “Isn’t that true, Johnis?”
“Yes,” he whispered. Then to Thomas, “I’m sorry, sir. It wont happen again. Ever.”
His tone was so remorseful that Silvie thought he meant it couldn’t happen again because he planned to end it all here and now, “I need to be alone,” he said.
“What do you expect me to tell the Guard?” Thomas asked. “That I’ve decided to leave you alone without any repercussions because you are sorry? You’ve put me in an impossible situation!”
“Then strip me of my rank,” Johnis said.
Rachelle faced her husband. “You know we can’t do—”
“I’ll decide here! This is my army, not yours!” He breathed hard for three long pulls of air. “I won’t strip you of rank, but I expect you to give a full accounting to the Council by day’s end. Pass their tests and I might let you be, but I wouldn’t expect to do it with those puppy eyes.”
Rachelle tsked and rolled her eyes. “Please, Thomas, quit being such a man! This isn’t a battle, for Elyon’s sake!”
“The rest of you stay nearby. No more heroics until we get this settled!” Thomas spun around, stormed to his horse, swung into the saddle, and disappeared into the trees.
“He’s right, there will have to be an accounting,” Rachelle said. “But don’t lose heart. None of you.” Then she, too, left, gliding more than walking into the forest, where her horse presumably waited.
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Billos said. “We’re on a mission to find the books, not this.”
“Unless you have some enlightened plan to find the books, keep your hole shut,” Silvie snapped, surprising even herself with her anger.
Darsal stepped up. “Easy, Silvie. I know you’ve been through a tough night—”
“Tough? We came within a bat’s hide of having our heads taken from our bodies!”
“You satisfied your lust for killing a few beasts, didn’t you?”
“I saw more death than I care to remember.”
“Thanks to your—”
“Quiet!” Johnis yelled, standing. “Leave me! Ail of you.”
“Please, Billos, you should use some tact,” Darsal chided. “This is a fine start to our vow to find the books. Fine, Johnis, we’ll give you space, but if the bat we just saw wasn’t reminder enough, the books are our priority.”
“Speaking of which, where are the books?” Billos asked.
“Safe,” Johnis said. “Now, please—”
“Safe where?”
“He said, safe,” Silvie said.
Billos eyed her and backed off. “We should use them to find the other black forests. As soon as this blows over.”
Strange to hear Billos so concerned with resuming the mission for the books, Silvie thought. Johnis might have been justified in wanting to hide the books from him.
Darsal walked up to Johnis and offered him a supportive grin. “If it helps, you have my sympathies. I know your heart is gold, Johnis. And I admire your love for your mother.”
“Me too,” Billos said. “We’ll leave you. But collect your thoughts, Scrapper. This isn’t over.”
They left Silvie and Johnis alone together.
“You too, Silvie,” Johnis said.
She felt a dagger in her chest. “Johnis …”
He looked at her with sad eyes. “I owe you my life, Silvie. And I will pay up, I promise. But my head’s falling apart here. I have to figure out what happened.”
“We know what happened.” She walked up to him and lifted his hand. “You’re a lover, not a fighter, that’s what happened. Although once you got the hang of it, you swung that sword pretty well.”
Her attempt to lighten the mood failed.
She let her grin soften and continued. “Stick to loving and you’ll be fine.” She kissed the back of his hand.
Then against her better judgment, she left him standing alone in the clearing, knowing she could not leave him again. Not now, not ever.
ohnis lay on the rock and wept.
He wept for the fighters who’d died. He wept for Thomas, whom he’d betrayed. He wept for Silvie, who had stood by his side when she knew better. He wept for his sister, Kiella, and his father, Ramos, who still didn’t know the truth about Rosa.
And he wept for his mother.
But none of his weeping brought relief. Only more weeping. If the Roush depended on him to find the books, then all was hopeless, because his mind and heart were lost on his mother. Rachelle was right; his heart was fractured, and try as he might, he couldn’t mend it.
The hours slipped by, and sleep finally gave him the relief he desperately needed. When he opened his eyes next, the sky was already darkening. Had it all been a dream?
“You planning on
sleeping forever?” a voice to his right said.
He jerked his head, surprised. A large boy leaned against a tree, arms crossed. It was Jackov, the seventeen-year-old fighter whose nose he’d broken just last week in a most improbable fight that had given him the position he now held as an officer in the Guard.
Jackov tried to grin, but his blackened nose discouraged muscle movement. He lowered his arms and walked up to the rock. “I heard what happened.”
Memories of his fateful attack on the Horde raged back, and Johnis closed his eyes. Not a dream. “What did you hear?”
“That you led five hundred Guard into a trap set by the Horde. That you’ve betrayed the forests. That if you show your face in the village, a thousand Guard will string you up by your ankles and lower you into water.”
He faced the stronger fighter, wondering if all of what he said was true. Undoubtedly. Except for the method by which the Guard would execute him—drowning was the Horde way, not the forests’.
“You’re in a predicament,” Jackov said.
“I am.”
“What will you do?”
Johnis looked around the clearing and saw that no one else was nearby. Pity. He’d hoped Silvie would come back for him.
“I was there, you know,” Jackov said.
“Where?”
“In the desert, with the Third Fighting Group.”
“You were? I didn’t know you’d been assigned to the Third.”
“I wasn’t. Thomas had the new recruits preparing fires for the Horde. He didn’t want us in battle so soon, so he came up with the crazy notion of filling trenches full of resin to light in case the Horde attacked. I was put in charge of a hundred worker bees.” Jackov sneered. “Imagine that, from the best of the new recruits to a taskmaster. On account of one squat who threw one lucky blow.”
“I’m sorry,” Johnis said, knowing Jackov spoke of him. “You’re right, it was lucky, and if I could take it back, I would. I didn’t have this in mind. How did you end up in the desert with us?”
Jackov shrugged. “I saw you leave the forest and slipped into the group when they entered the desert.”
“Then I’m glad you made it out.” Johnis slipped from the rock and brushed dirt from his seat.