by K. T. Tomb
THE
LOST GARDEN
An Evan Knight Adventure
#1
by
K.T. TOMB
Acclaim for K.T. Tomb:
“Epic and awesome!”
—J.T. Cross, bestselling author of Beneath the Deep
“Now this is what I call adventure. The Lost Garden will leave you breathless!”
—Summer Lee, bestselling author of Angel Heart
“The best adventure novel I’ve read in a long time. K.T. Tomb. I can’t wait to read the sequel. Count me a fan. A big fan.”
—P.J. Day, bestselling author of The Sunset Prophecy
“K.T. Tomb is a wonderful new voice in adventure fiction. I was enthralled by The Lost Garden...and you will be, too.”
—Aiden James, bestselling author of Plague of Coins
OTHER BOOKS BY K.T. TOMB
STANDALONE ADVENTURES
The Last Crusade
The Kraken
The Adventurers
The Swashbucklers
The Tempest
Ghosts of the Titanic
The Honeymooners
Curse of the Coins
Drums Along the Hudson
THE CHYNA STONE ADVENTURES
The Minoan Mask
The Mummy Codex
The Phoenician Falcon
The Babylonian Basilisk
The Aquitaine Armor
THE EVAN KNIGHT ADVENTURES
The Lost Garden
Keepers of the Lost Garden
Destroyers of the Lost Garden
THE PHOENIX QUEST ADVENTURES
The Hammer of Thor
The Spear of Destiny
The Lair of Beowulf
The Fountain of Youth
THE CASH CASSIDY ADVENTURES
The Holy Grail
The Lost Continent
The Lost City of Gold
THE ALPHA ADVENTURES
“A” is for Amethyst
“B” is for Bullion
“C” is for Crystal
SASQUATCH SERIES
Sasquatch
Sasquatch Found
THE ISLANDS THAT TIME FORGOT
Dinosaur Island
Ape Island
Snake Island
The Lost Garden
Published by K.T. Tomb
Copyright © 2013 by K.T. Tomb
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
The author wishes to dedicate this book to the late
Louis L’Amour.
The Lost Garden
Prologue
We are lost.
From the base of a massive, rock-encrusted mountain, General Del’ada Donatte crawls up onto a sunbaked boulder. He seeks a higher vantage point to discern anything green in the expansive desert that is supposed to contain an oasis, according to his flawed maps.
The stone scorches his already-blistered hands, but he pays it little mind.
What concerns Donatte is that his last twelve men are painfully dying of thirst and sunstroke. Succumbing to the same fate, he stands shakily upon the rock and shades his eyes against the glare. There is no wind, not even at this height. He can hear his own pulse in his ears, thumping hard from the rock climb. And from age.
Heat waves shimmer off the desert floor with sparkles that mock him with a distant sea that does not exist. It is clear from the bleak surroundings that he and his men are alone in an empty wasteland. Days ago, a nomadic shepherd had warned them that this land was cursed and that caravans had long ago learned to avoid it. He had pleaded with them not to take that path and be cursed along with the ones who had gone that way but never returned. But they had gone that way. Donatte had led them. He had a good reason.
He doesn’t know about the land being cursed, but he does know one truth:
We will die today.
He feels sure that this path leads through what must surely be Jahannam on Earth, but it is the only way to get close to something that Donatte covets more than anything. He isn’t just here to fight a war. He is here to find something of which he has not spoken to anyone since he had unexpectedly learned of it. Even his wife does not know the truth.
But his secret quest of a lifetime is halted by their dire circumstances.
Donatte’s men had been ambushed. His forty warriors had fought valiantly, but in the end, he and those remaining were forced to flee even deeper into the desert. The enemy had followed them. Like a painful blessing, a haboob rose up and soon swallowed them whole into the bosom of its ferocious, suffocating winds and searing, stinging sand. After hours of this, they had dug themselves out into an orange sky and a fiery sun. Their pursuers were nowhere to be found.
Praise be to Allah.
Now, Donatte looks down at his men, who suffer in what little shade is afforded by the boulder. Their camels, donkeys and horses have long ago been eaten or died in the haboob. The last time any of them saw water was nine days ago and now their skin is dry, blistered and peeling. Yesterday, two men had died of thirst. Three today. They are left unburied, which is a disgrace and a crime that Donatte has been unable to rectify, but they had lost the donkey carrying the shovels in the haboob—no one left has the strength to dig graves with bare hands. They have no cloth for shrouds, let alone water to cleanse the bodies. The men recite the collective prayer for the dead. It is all they can do. Later, they talk softly, flick scorpions off each other’s sleeves and know that they, too, will die today.
Donatte knows there will be no one to bury him, either.
He has a wife that he has not seen since this campaign began seven months ago. She had been with child, their first, and would be ready to give birth by now. He reaches down and runs his fingers along the silver chain that he wears around his wrist. It was a gift from Atasa, his beautiful wife, whom they had thought was barren for the past twenty years until that one drop of oil had changed everything.
She had begged him not to go, but he was a general, a warrior, and he had been summoned to duty. There was little he could do. He imagines her bustling about their airy whitewashed house, making ready for the child whom the astrologer said would be a boy—and for his homecoming, which would not happen now. His heart feels a pang at that loss.
As he inhales, he feels his sand-slaked lungs tighten. He wishes he’d followed his instincts and claimed he was too old for such a rigorous overland campaign. He had served well these past twenty-five years. He would have been granted leave for this campaign had he pleaded his advanced age. As Donatte scans the horizon again, he almost chuckles when he admits to himself that he would rather kill for a living than help raise a newborn baby. He had held one once, and it had reeked of feces in the swaddling clothes. Moreover, it had pulled his beard and wailed at him.
Unable to doze in the searing heat and in the stench of his own dried sweat, to his surprise, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. With his men all sitting with their backs to the boulder in the scant shade, Donatte is sure he is hallucinating due to extreme heat exhaustion and perhaps sun blindness. He turns sharply to his right and looks up the slope of the rocky mountain. The sky is so blue that it looks like the gleam of a sapphire. Against that blue, about a hundred cubits up, a figure clad in a black robe ducks behind another boulder.
Am I seeing a ghost? thinks Donatte. Could this be the ghost that will come to steal my soul away from my dried-up husk of a lifeless body?
He hears the sound of a small rock t
umbling down the slope from where the figure had disappeared.
Ghosts don’t disturb gravel.
He looks down at his men. They sit with their backs against the shaded boulder, talking about their families—mostly, of their fathers and their sons. Donatte speaks rapidly in Arabic. Some of his words are coherent, others are dried whispers. He licks his lips, but his tongue feels coated with the grit of sand.
He is filled with false hope and he knows it, but says anyway, “Look up! Someone is above us. We are saved!”
The men look up. At first, following his lead, some stand and shout with joy, but one of them points a finger past Donatte and shouts a sharp warning as he points at their weapons being drawn. Donatte immediately reaches for his scimitar.
Weapon in hand, Donatte frowns and turns.
One last fight.
Suddenly, he welcomes the battle. Anything is better than this slow roast toward a death from mad thirst.
Descending rapidly down the mountain are many impossibly tall, black-robed figures wearing hoods. They brandish unusual-looking spears, with the ends curving away like their own swords.
Thieves, thinks Donatte. He can hardly believe it. They have no food, no water. Only weapons. Ah, but bandits had killed for less than the fine weapons they carried.
“Let us fight with honor!” he cries to his men.
He knows it is their last battle. They all know.
He brandishes his own scimitar with as much might as he can muster, just as the first of the black-clad figures drops down from above. The figure moves fast and lands amid Donatte’s men. Donatte is amazed at the skill with which the figure uses the weapon. He is also surprised by the single warrior’s brazenness in taking on so many warriors at once.
More thieves appear from above as a flash of metal barely misses the general’s head. He ducks and falls backward onto the hot boulder. A figure joins him on the rock, moving as if he had been born on this mountain. The figure swings his weapon. Donatte blocks the attack with his own scimitar. Metal rings against metal as he and his men make their last stand and fight with warrior hearts that would rather die than beg to be taken prisoner for a drink of water.
Through his own combat sounds, he hears his men’s cries of aggression that become cries of suffering and then, death cries.
Donatte stumbles and falls in the loose gravel. He loses his scimitar, which falls to the ground. He looks shocked as he sees that all of his men are now dead and that he is on their level, sprawled in the dirt among their bodies.
The last man alive.
The thieves have made quick work of his soldiers and now, it will be his turn.
He thinks he can likely ransom himself out of here, but no. Never. He is not a coward.
The general looks back as the leader’s figure approaches him. A strong wind is now rising for the first time in many days, not since the haboob. Though it is a hot wind, the welcome breeze chills his dehydrated body. As he unexpectedly shivers, the wind blows back the hood of his attacker.
Donatte’s heart freezes.
It is a beautiful black-haired woman with a burning hatred in her eyes. She has a streak of silver in her hair.
“No, this cannot be,” says Donatte. “Not a mere woman.”
To his surprise, the woman answers in Arabic, “I’m afraid so. Though I would argue the word, ‘mere.’”
Her single movement is swift and merciful. Donatte’s head is severed from his neck in one clean swipe.
“That’s the last of them,” says another female warrior.
“More will come,” answers the raven-haired woman.
Chapter One
Jessima IL Eve slipped in through the rear door of the crowded lecture hall and found the first available seat in the back row. She was late, but then again, she had traveled halfway across the world to be here tonight.
The guest lecturer was already talking. “Whether you agree with the Bible or not, there is indeed historical truth to be found within its pages. The Bible does indeed exist as an unusual road map to history, one that has intrigued scholars for centuries.”
The lecturer was a tall man with a slender build, dressed casually in jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, loafers and a battered brown suit jacket that was at least six years out of style. He spoke calmly and confidently before the packed assembly hall, which was full of students, faculty, and even a couple of local reporters. Even from here, Jess could see how attractive the man was. It was a face she had committed to memory, which hadn’t been an entirely unpleasant experience. He was, after all, the man she had come halfway around the world to see.
She corrected herself. She had not just come to see him. She needed to bring him back with her, whether he wanted to come or not.
After pausing for a drink of water from behind his podium, the lecturer continued, “Whether or not the Bible contains spiritual truths is a matter of personal opinion and theology. We’re not here today to discuss theology. We’re here to try to answer one question: ‘Did the Garden of Eden truly exist?’”
His name was Dr. Evan Knight and Jess watched his every movement. She was curious about the man who was prophesied to save the world, but cared little for what he had to say on the subject of the Garden of Eden’s existence. After all, she already knew the answer to that question. She decided that she liked the way he casually strolled before the audience. His movements spoke of confidence. He appeared to be in excellent physical condition. Jess was not sure if she had ever met a man who appeared to be so in control of himself. She found herself intrigued with Dr. Evan Knight, the maverick historian. It was perhaps the first time in her very long life that she could recall being intrigued with any male.
Perhaps the Mother Daughter was correct, thought Jess. Perhaps he is the one.
Still, he was a common male, with only his limited life experiences—unlike her own that spanned centuries. She still could not see how a common man could prove to be so valuable.
She was not here to doubt. She was here to bring him home. For now, she settled in her chair and listened to what the good Dr. Knight had to say.
* * *
Dr. Evan Knight paused for a moment to take a sip of water. He had not missed the unusually tall woman who had appeared late. He had watched her move quickly from the door to the back row. As he spoke, he found himself drawn to that section of the crowd. Her slender build and raven-black hair had immediately intrigued him. Even from where he stood, he thought he could detect a streak of white in her hair.
It was then that he needed another drink of water. His mouth had instantly gone bone-dry. He told himself that he was acting ridiculous.
She looked remarkably like the woman who had haunted his dreams since his youth, the woman who made all other women in his life seem unimportant.
Focus, Evan, he told himself. They’re all waiting eagerly to hear what you have to say.
Focusing was now difficult. He had to fight a strong desire to run up the stairs of the lecture hall and meet this woman.
He used all of his concentration to force himself to stop thinking about her, while still keeping an eye on her. The University of Long Beach had paid good money to bring him out here tonight, so he concentrated on his lecture.
He used a remote to activate an overhead projector. On the screen behind him appeared the names of four rivers.
“Let me read from New King James version of the Bible. I trust you all brought your Bibles tonight.” There was a slight murmuring from the crowd. “If you would, please turn to Genesis 2:10.” He cleared his throat and slipped on a narrow pair of reading glasses. He opened his own Bible to the aforementioned scripture. “‘Now a river went out of Eden to water the garden, and from there it parted and became four river-heads. The name of the first is Pishon; it is the one which skirts the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold. And the gold of that land is good. Bdellium and the onyx stone are there. The name of the second river is Gihon; it is the one which goes around the whole land of Cush. Th
e name of the third river is Hiddekel; it is the one which goes toward the east of Assyria. The fourth river is the Euphrates.’”
Knight removed his glasses and used his remote to go to the next slide. There, the name of the first river appeared: Pishon. “There have been many theories associated with the location of the Garden of Eden. A common one is called the Northern Theory, which places the Garden of Eden in the eastern mountains of Turkey, a location, I might add, that some claim is the final resting place of another Biblical enigma, a certain ark built by Noah. Those who favor the Northern Theory point to the fact that the Bible states the river that flowed from Eden separated into four rivers. Well, these researchers have simply traced the Tigris and Euphrates back to its present-day source: the mountains of Eastern Turkey. Other than vague satellite images of ancient river systems, there is little other evidence pointing to this area as the location of the Garden of Eden.”
Knight paused in his narrative and found himself again standing in the section of the assembly hall directly facing the raven-haired woman. He seemed to have her entire attention. He squinted through the dim lights, but it was pointless. For now, the woman remained a mystery.
“Another popular theory, called the Southern Theory, holds that the Garden of Eden has, in fact, been located under the present-day Persian Gulf that forms marshes along a one hundred and twenty-mile stretch of land in southern Iraq, where both the Tigris and Euphrates come together. The river Hiddekel, as mentioned in the Bible is, of course, the ancient name for the river, Tigris. However, the other two rivers, the Pishon and Gihon, cannot be located in this region. Scholars conveniently change the names of other rivers to match these two. Major geographical features like massive riverbeds don’t just disappear from the transitory effects of normal erosion. Even the great riverbeds on Mars have, in fact, survived for hundreds of thousands of years.” Knight stopped and focused his attention on a handful of students seated in the front row. “I’ve been to these marshes in the region called Shatt al-Arab in southern Iraq. This is no paradise, unless your idea of heaven on earth is sweltering heat and unbearable humidity and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds.