by Ted Dekker
This love for children confused Ronin more than any other trait of Justin’s. Some said that Justin was a druid. And it was commonly known that druids could deceive the innocent with a few soft words. Ronin had a difficult time separating Justin’s effect on children from the speculation that he wasn’t who he seemed.
“Hello there,” Justin said.
Both children ducked behind the bush.
Justin slid from his horse and hurried toward the bush. “No, no, please come out. Come out, I need your advice.” He stopped and knelt on one knee.
“My advice?” the boy asked, poking his head up.
A hand gripped his shirt and pulled him back. The girl wasn’t so brave.
“Your advice. It’s about today’s battle.”
They whispered urgently, then finally came out, the boy boldly, the girl cautiously. Ronin saw that they each carried a wooden sword. The girl was shorter and her left hand was bent backward at an odd angle. Deformed.
Justin’s eyes lowered to the girl’s hand, then up to her face. For a moment he seemed trapped by the sight. A bird sang in the tree above them.
“My name is Justin, and I . . .” He sat down and crossed his legs in one movement. “What are your names?”
“Billy and Lucy,” the boy said.
“Well, Billy and Lucy, you are two of the bravest children I have ever known.”
The boy’s eyes brightened.
“And the most beautiful,” he said.
The girl shifted on her feet.
“My friends here, Ronin and Arvyl, aren’t convinced that I can single-handedly bring the Horde to its knees. I have to decide, and I think that you might be able to give me some direction. Look in my eyes and tell me. What do you think? Should I take on the Horde?”
Billy looked at Ronin, at a loss. The girl answered first.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes,” the boy said. “Of course.”
“Yes! You hear that, Ronin? Give me ten warriors who believe like these two and I would bring the entire Horde to its knees. Come here, Billy. I would like to shake the hand of the man who told me what grown men could not.”
Justin stretched out his hand and Billy took it, beaming. Justin ruffled the boy’s hair and whispered something that Ronin couldn’t hear. But both of the children laughed.
“Lucy, come and let me kiss the hand of the most beautiful maiden in all the land.”
She stepped forward and offered her good hand.
“Not that one. The other.”
Her smile softened. Slowly she lowered her sword. Now both hands hung limp at her sides. Justin held her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said very quietly.
She lifted her crippled hand and Justin took it in both of his. He leaned over and kissed it lightly. Then he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.
To be perfectly honest, Lucy was terrified by Justin. But it wasn’t a fearful terrified as much as a nervous terrified. She wasn’t sure whether she should trust him or not. His eyes said yes and his smile said yes, but there was something about him that made her knees knock.
When he took her hand and kissed it, she knew he could feel her shaking. Then he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.
“You are very brave, Lucy.” His voice was soft and it ran through her body like a glass of warm milk. “If I were a king, I would wish that you were my daughter. A princess.”
He kissed her forehead.
She wasn’t sure why, but tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t because of what he had said, or because he’d kissed her cheek. It was the power in his voice. Like magic. She felt like a princess swept off her feet by the greatest prince in all the land, just like in the stories.
Only it wasn’t the beautiful princess the prince had chosen. It was her, the one with the stub for a hand.
She tried her best to keep from crying, but it was very hard, and she suddenly felt awkward standing in front of Billy like this.
Justin winked at her and stood, still holding her own hand. He put his other hand on Billy’s shoulder. “I want you both to go home as fast as you can. Tell the people that the Horde will be defeated today. We will march through the Elyon Valley at noon, victors. Can I count on you?”
They both nodded.
He released them both and turned back to where his horse waited. “If only we could all be children again,” he said.
Then he swung into his saddle and galloped across the small clearing. Justin pulled up at the trees and spun his horse back.
If Lucy wasn’t mistaken, she could see tears on his face. “If only you could all be children again.”
Then he rode into the trees.
“Watch our flank!” Jamous thundered. “Keep them to the front!”
Markus drove his horse directly into a pocket of Horde warriors and pulled up just as one took a wide swipe with his sickle. Markus threw his torso backward, flat on the horse’s rump. The sickle whistled through the air above. He brought his sword up with his body, severing the Scab’s arm at the shoulder.
Jamous used his bow, sending an arrow through the back of the warrior bearing down on Markus from behind. The attacker roared in pain and dropped his sword.
“Back! Back!” Jamous cried.
It was their fourth attack that morning, and the strategy was working exactly as Jamous had designed it to. If they kept beating away at the flanks, their superior speed would keep the slower army from outmaneuvering them for position to the rear. They were like wolves tearing at the legs of a bear, always just out of reach of its slashing claws, just close enough to take small bites at will.
The forest lay a hundred yards to their rear. Jamous glanced back.
No, two hundred. That far?
Farther.
He spun around and stood in his stirrups, surveying the battlefield. A chill defied the hot sun and washed down his back. They were too far out!
“Back to the forest!” he screamed.
Even as he did, he saw the wide swath of Horde slicing in from the east, cutting them off.
He glanced to the west. The enemy ran too far to cut through their lines there. He spun to the west. An endless sea of Horde.
Panic swelled, then receded. There was a way out. There was always a way out.
“Center line!” he cried. “Center line!”
His men fell in behind him for running retreat. When the Horde moved to intercept, they would break off in a dozen directions to scatter them. But always they would move in the direction he first took them.
His horse reared high and Jamous looked desperately for that direction.
“They’re cutting us off!” Markus yelled. “Jamous—”
He knew then what the enemy had done. The bear had suffered the wolves’ attacks with patience, snarling and swiping as it always did. But today it had slowly, methodically drawn the wolves farther and farther into the desert, far enough so they wouldn’t see the flanking maneuver. Too far to outrun it.
The Horde army closed in a hundred yards behind them. At the center a warrior held high their crest, the serpentine Shataiki bat. They were trapped.
The Scabs nearest him suddenly fell back a hundred yards and joined the main army. His men had clustered to his right. Their horses snorted and stamped, worn from battle. No one demanded that he do something. There was little they could do.
Except charge.
The Horde line between them and the forest was their only real option. But it was already fifty yards wide, too many Scabs to cut through with fewer than two hundred men.
Still, it was their only option. An image of Mikil flashed through his mind. They would say that he had fought like no man had ever fought, and she would carry his body to the funeral pyre.
The Scab army had stopped now. The desert had fallen silent. They seemed content to let Jamous make the first move. They would simply adjust their noose in whichever direction he took them. The Horde army was learning.
Martyn.
&n
bsp; Jamous faced his men, who’d formed a line facing the forest. “There’s only one way,” he said.
“Straight at them,” Markus said.
“Elyon’s strength.”
“Elyon’s strength.”
Maybe a few of them could cut through the wall to warn the village.
“Spread the word. On my mark, straight ahead. If you make it, evacuate the village. They will be burning.”
Had it really come down to this? One last suicide run?
“You’re a good man, Jamous,” Markus said.
“And you, Markus. And you.” They looked at each other. Jamous lifted his sword.
“Rider! Behind!” The call came from down the line.
Jamous twisted in his saddle. A lone rider raced across the desert from the east, half a mile distant. Dust rose in his wake.
Jamous spun his horse. “Steady.”
The rider was headed neither for them nor for the Desert Dwellers. He approached halfway between their position and the Horde army. A white horse.
The sound of the pounding hoofs reached Jamous. He fixed his eyes on this one horse, thundering in from the desert like a blinded runner who’d gotten lost and was determined to deliver his message to the supreme commander at any cost.
It was Justin of Southern.
The man still wasn’t in proper battle dress. His hood flew behind him with loose locks. He rode on the balls of his feet as if he’d been born in that saddle. And in his right hand hung a sword, low and easy so that it looked like it might touch the sand at any moment.
Jamous swallowed. This warrior had fought and won more battles than any living man except for Thomas himself. Although Jamous had never fought with him, they’d all heard of his exploits before he’d left the Guard.
Justin suddenly veered toward the Horde army, leaned low on the far side of his horse, and lowered his sword into the sand. Still running full speed, he carved a line on the desert for a hundred yards before righting himself and pulling his mount to a stop.
The white stallion reared and dropped back around.
Justin galloped back, not once glancing at either army. The front ranks of the Horde shifted but held steady. He reined tight at the center of the line that he’d drawn and faced the Horde.
The armies grew perfectly still.
For several long seconds Justin stared ahead, his back to Jamous.
“What’s he—”
Jamous lifted a hand to quiet Markus.
Justin swung his leg off his saddle and dropped to the ground. He walked up to the line and stopped. Then he deliberately stepped over the line and walked forward, sword dragging in the sand by his side. They could hear the soft crunch of sand under his feet. A horse down the line snorted.
He was only a hundred feet from the main Horde army when he stopped again. This time he thrust his sword into the sand and took three steps back.
His voice rang out across the desert. “I request to speak with the general named Martyn!”
“What does he think he’s doing? He’s surrendering?”
“I don’t know, Markus. We’re still alive.”
“We can’t surrender! The Horde takes no prisoners.”
“I think he aims to make peace.”
“Peace with them is treason against Elyon!” Markus spit.
Jamous glanced at the army to their rear. “Send one runner wide, to their eastern flank.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Let’s see if they let him pass.”
Markus issued the order.
Justin still faced the army, waiting. A rider broke from Jamous’s line and sprinted east, in much the same manner as Justin had. The Scabs made no move to stop him.
“They’re letting him go.”
“Good. Let’s see if—”
“Now they’re stopping him.”
The Scabs were closing the eastern flank. The rider pulled up and headed back.
Jamous swore. “Well then, let’s see how far treason gets us.”
As if on cue, the Horde army parted directly ahead. A lone general on a horse, wearing the black sash of his rank, rode slowly out to Justin. Martyn. Jamous could make out his bland Scab face beneath the hood, but not his features. He stopped ten feet from Justin’s sword.
The soft rumbling of their voices carried across the desert, but Jamous couldn’t make out their words. Still they talked. Five minutes. Ten.
The general Martyn suddenly slid from his horse, met Justin at the sword in the sand, and clasped Justin’s hands in the traditional forest greeting.
“What?”
“Hold your tongue, Markus. If we live to fight another day, we will drag him through his treason.”
The general mounted, rode back to his men, and disappeared. A long horn blasted from the front line.
“Now what?”
Justin leaped into his saddle, spun his horse, and sprinted straight toward them. He’d come within twenty feet without slowing before it occurred to Jamous that he wasn’t going to.
He cursed and jerked his horse to the left.
He could see the mischievous glint in Justin’s emerald eyes as he blasted through the line and galloped toward the waiting Horde. Long before he met them, the Scab army parted and withdrew, first east and west, and then south like a receding tide on either side.
Justin pulled up at the tree line.
Jamous glanced back once, then kicked his horse. “Ride!”
It wasn’t until he was halfway to Justin that Jamous remembered his agreement. The man had indeed rid him of the Horde, hadn’t he? Yes. Not by any means he’d imagined—not by any means he even understood—but he had. And for that at least, Justin was victor.
Today the people would honor him.
11
HE’S STILL sleeping?” Phil Grant asked.
The frumpy doctor pushed the door to his lab open. “Like a baby. I insist that you let me study him further. This is highly unusual, you understand? I’ve never seen it.”
“Can you unlock his dreams with more work?”
“I don’t know what I can unlock, but I’m happy to try. Whatever’s happening in that mind of his must be scrutinized. Must.”
“I’m not sure how much time we have for your musts,” Grant said. “We’ll see.”
Kara walked in ahead of the two men. It struck her as odd that only two weeks ago she’d lived a quiet life as a nurse in Denver. Yet here she was, being traipsed about by the director of the CIA and a world-renowned cognitive psychologist, who were both looking to her brother for answers to perhaps the single greatest crisis that the United States had ever faced. That the world had ever faced.
Thomas lay in a maroon recliner, lights low, while an orchestral version of “Killing Me Softly” whispered through ceiling speakers. She’d spent the afternoon putting their affairs in order: rent on their Denver apartment, insurance bills, a long call to Mother, who’d been climbing the walls with all the news about Thomas’s kidnapping of Monique. Depending on what happened in the next day or so, Kara thought she might fly to New York for a visit. The prospect of never seeing her mother again wasn’t sitting well. The scientists were all talking as though the virus wouldn’t wreak havoc for another eighteen days, but really it could be less. Seventeen. Sixteen. The models were only so accurate. There was every possibility that they all had less than three weeks to live.
“So he’s been sleeping for three hours without dreaming?”
Dr. Myles Bancroft walked to the monitor and tapped it lightly. “Let me put it this way. If he is dreaming, it’s not like any dream I’ve ever seen. No rapid eye movement. No perceptual brain activity, no fluctuation in facial temperature. He’s in deep sleep, but his dreams are quiet.”
“So the whole notion of recording his dream patterns and feeding them back . . .”
“Is a nonstarter,” the psychologist finished.
Grant shook his head. “He looks so . . . ordinary.”
“He’s far from ordinary,” Kara
said.
“Evidently. It’s just hard to imagine that the fate of the world is hung up somewhere in this mind. We know that he discovered the Raison Strain—the idea that he has the antivirus hidden in that mind somewhere is a bit unnerving, considering that he’s never had a day of medical training in his life.”
“Which is why you must let me spend more time with him,” Bancroft repeated.
They stared at him in silence.
“Wake him,” Kara said.
Bancroft shook Thomas gently. “Wake up, lad.”
Thomas’s eyes blinked open. Funny how she rarely thought of him as Tom anymore. He was Thomas now. It suited him better.
“Welcome to the land of the living,” the doctor said. “How do you feel?”
He sat up. Wiped at his eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Three hours.”
Thomas looked around the lab. Three hours. It felt like more.
“What happened?” Kara asked.
They were staring at him expectantly. “Did it work?” he asked.
“That’s what we were wondering,” Bancroft said.
“I don’t know. Did you record my dreams?”
“Did you dream?”
“I don’t know, did I? Or am I dreaming now?”
Kara sighed. “Please, Thomas.”
“Okay, then yes, of course I dreamed. I returned to the forest with my army after destroying the Horde—the black powder worked wonders— met with the Council, then fell asleep after joining the celebration with Rachelle.”
He slid his feet to the floor and stood. “And I’m dreaming now, which means I didn’t eat the fruit. She’ll have my hide.”
“Who’ll have your hide?” Grant asked.
“His wife. Rachelle,” Kara said.
The director looked at her with a raised brow.
“And I asked about the Books of Histories,” Thomas said. “I know the man who may be able to tell me where to find them.”