Renegade

by Ted Dekker

  As to why Darsal had been so careless: she’d been completely distracted by the book. And by Karas.

  Darsal’s heart thundered. What to do?

  There were only four Scabs, but with Karas under the blade, the girl’s chances for survival were slim. Darsal had two knives and a sword. She was already considering their use, but in the next moment the situation went from difficult to impossible.

  Her horse shifted nervously under her as two more mounted Scabs stepped into the clearing from behind the boulders opposite her.

  “Move and she dies,” the Scab with the spear growled.

  He was a massive man, with muscles that coiled around his arms like ropes. A giant who looked like he might actually make a worthy adversary by himself.

  The Scab grinned wide, exposing two shiny brass teeth. “Come to Papa.”

  illos stepped into Smither’s Barbeque, nerves strung to the snapping point, walking casually as if strolling into this establishment was something he’d done a thousand times before.

  But his eyes scanned every detail, and his right hand hovered over the gun that formed a lump in his trench coat. Like the view of the village’s exterior, the guts of this eatery were stunning. Glowing lamps hung from the walls, but as far as Billos could see, there were no flames. Glass. So much smooth, clear glass that Billos wondered if the histories were made from glass. Mugs, cups, lamps, windows … all glass.

  And colors everywhere, red and blue and yellow, paintings and small statues, boxes and tables and lights; even the floor was red. All colored. The wood was carved in the most intricate and seamless fashions, curls and ovals and edges that looked sharp enough to cut meat. Almost as if they wanted him to think they were artisans rather than warriors. Crafty.

  But he wouldn’t be so easily fooled. Marsuvees Black was probably watching his every move at this very moment.

  The man who’d invited him in for a drink stood behind a counter, drying glasses.

  “What can I get you?”

  Billos stared at him for a moment, checking for weapons. When he saw none that he recognized, he walked up to the counter and asked for the most common of drinks.

  “Do you have blue plum wine?”

  The man glanced at the other two, who were standing around a large, green table, pretending to be interested in colored balls that they struck with wood poles. It occurred to Billos that the sticks could be weapons. He would have to keep an eye on them.

  “Blue plum wine, huh? No, no, I don’t suppose I have any blue plum wine.”

  Hearing laughter in the man’s tone, Billos decided that he should play the confident rabble-rouser to win their trust. Some men respected barbs more than sweet talking,

  “Then what kind of grog do you have in this hole?” he demanded.

  The man’s eyebrow arched. “Grog? How about a light ale?”

  “Ale, then!” Billos slapped his hand on the counter. He knew ale, of course, but he didn’t know how putting a light inside of it might affect its taste. He’d tasted Horde ale once and had nearly thrown up. Hopefully this so-called “light ale” wasn’t as bad.

  “Ale,” the man said, dipping his head once.

  “You have no women in this village?” Billos asked, walking around the counter, looking for their hidden weapons.

  “The village is full of women. All taken, I would say.”

  He walked up to a tall glass box, glowing red and blue with a picture of gold plates on the front. It read jukebox and emanated the strangest music he’d ever heard. No sign of musicians.

  A man began to sing from within the box, and Billos stopped. A man is hiding in the box, singing. What kind of strategy is this? Three men behind him now; one hidden in the box, singing to draw his attention.

  Crafty, but he wouldn’t let on that he was aware of their ploy.

  “One ale,” the server said.

  Billos returned to the counter and lifted the mug of amber ale. “Thank you.”

  “Name’s Steve,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

  Billos took it. “Billos,” he said.

  “Glad to meet you, Billy. This here’s Chris and Fred.”

  “Billos,” Billos repeated, then remembered that Black had called him Billy as well. “Billy. Billy is fine.” He nodded at the others, who watched him cautiously and dipped their heads.

  “What brings you to Paradise?” the one called Steve asked.

  Black, Billos wanted to say. “Johnis,” he said instead, hoping to catch the man off guard.

  “Johnny? Johnny Drake?”

  “You’ve heard of him?” Billos asked.

  “He was through here a few months ago and then disappeared. You friend or foe to Johnny?”

  “Friend, of course.”

  “Then I suggest you find Samuel. But we don’t want any trouble. We’ve had our share.”

  There was trickery afloat here. He’d already found Samuel, who was clearly the enemy. And that put Johnis and maybe the rest of them in the same camp. Like Black had said, conspirators who pretended to be your friends.

  “Do you read books here?” he asked,

  The man glanced at the others again, this time unsure.

  “Books. Sure. Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? What kind of books, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  The man in the jukebox stopped singing.

  “All kinds of books,” Steve said. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Billos saw them then, all three Books of History sitting high on a bookshelf behind the counter next to some old bottles, as if they’d been there for some time.

  He felt his muscles tense, then immediately removed his eyes from the shelf and forced himself to relax. This could only be the final confirmation that Black was right about Paradise. He might actually be in Teeleh’s lair as it appeared in history.

  Billos lifted his mug and drank deep, stilling his trembling hand. At any moment they would make their move, he was sure of it. But even as the cool nectar ran down his throat, he knew their every intention, their exact locations, and precisely how he would dispatch them.

  “Think of Paradise as your test,” Black had said.

  In that moment a supreme confidence settled over Billos. For the average warrior, Paradise might be a test of champions, but he would show them all that for Billos of Southern, battle came as naturally as a stroll along the lake.

  He loved Black, and he loved the power Black had given him, and he loved Paradise, the village in which he would prove once and for all that he was worthy of both Black and the power.

  “Easy, man.”

  Billos drained the last of the drink and slammed the mug on the counter. He drilled Steve with a hard stare. “We can do this the easy way, or if you insist on playing coy, the hard way. But I must warn you, I’m better than all four of you put together.”

  The man blinked. “Four? What are you talking about?”

  “The man in the jukebox. He’ll be first. Give me the books, and I may let you live.”

  The man blinked. Crafty indeed, playing his deception to the bitter end.

  “Hold on, son. You’ve got this all wrong. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here or who sent you, but it’s wrong. We’ve had our share of trouble, but Johnny took care of that. Now …” Steve took a breath. “I suggest you take your black wannabe duds out of here and hit the road before someone gets hurt.”

  A new voice spoke behind Billos. “Everything okay, Steve?”

  Billos froze. Steve glanced past him toward the door. “Morning, Jerry.”

  Billos slipped his hand under his trench coat, felt the cool steel at his fingertips, and spun around. A man dressed in blue stood in the open doorway. He wore a brass star on his chest and a gun on his hip. Jerry. A warrior.

  Jerry’s eyes shifted to Billos’s hand under his trench coat. His hand reached for the gun that hung at his waist. Billos moved then, while he still had the upper hand. He jerked out the gun from which the suhupow came.


  The man in blue grabbed for his own gun, and Billos threw himself to the right, pulling the lever as he moved.

  Boom! The gun bucked in his grasp.

  He saw the man spin around with the suhupow’s impact; then Billos was on the ground, rolling to his right. He had to assume they would unload their own suhupow immediately, but moving would make him a hard target.

  The man in the jukebox must be next. Surprisingly, he began to sing again, an odd, devious response to the obvious danger his partners were in. Surely he’d heard the loud discharge over his own crooning voice.

  And this time, a woman joined in. There were two assassins in the box?

  Billos came to one knee, pointed his gun at the jukebox, and pulled the lever four times. Boom, boom, boom, boom! The contraption exploded in a colorful shower of glass. Smoke coiled to the ceiling.

  The mans and woman’s voices caught in their throats. Both dead.

  Now Billos was on his feet and running to his left. He leveled the suhupow at the two men bearing the stick-weapons and sent them both reeling back with two blasts. This left only the one behind the counter.

  Steve,

  Billos whirled and brought his gun to bear on the wide-eyed man, who was just now bringing a large metal weapon with twin tubes up from under the counter. A massive gun.

  Boom! Billos sent him flying.

  He held the gun steady and turned around, ready for anyone else who wanted a piece of Billos of Southern. But there was no one. His ears rang, his heart pounded, but otherwise he was surrounded by silence.

  And six dead bodies, including the two in the jukebox. Dead by Billos.

  “What do you make of that?” he muttered, then added, thinking of Marsuvees Black, “Baby. “

  A voice reached him from outside the establishment, words he couldn’t make out. Other voices joined in, yelling now.

  He’d awoken Paradise.

  Let the fight begin.

  OME TO PAPA.”

  Darsal had never encountered a Scab who seemed so cocky, but she could see why Papa was sure of himself. He was twice as big as she, had a blade against Karass neck, and stood with five of his peers bearing down on one fighter and a child.

  If Billos were here, they wouldn’t have hesitated. But Billos had abandoned her, forcing her into this impossible situation.

  Why hadn’t Papa just killed Karas and taken up the fight with Darsal?

  “Are you going to just stand there, flashing your big brass teeth, or are you going to be a man and kill us?” Darsal asked.

  The Scab tilted his head, face bright and brash despite his gray eyes. “Witty are we? Good. This desert could use a lively hostage to ease the boredom.”

  “Just kill them as we agreed,” one of the other Scabs said.

  Papa shot him a stern glance. “If they resist, we said. This fighter hasn’t touched her sword.” To Darsal: “What brings you so deep into the desert with this child?”

  A large Shataiki bat flapped and settled on the rock over his head.

  “Him,” Darsal said, looking up.

  Papa followed her eyes. Faced her again. “A rock?”

  “The Shataiki. You don’t see it?”

  “Kill them,” another grunted. “No good ever came of playing with one of them. She’s a viper,”

  “Perhaps, but even a viper can break the monotony of traveling with you, Bruntas. I would guess this one fighter could kill you with both hands tied behind her back. Care for a wager?”

  “Kill the child, and you have your wager,” Bruntas snapped.

  Papa’s grin vanished. He spit to one side, “I don’t kill children.”

  “She’s diseased!”

  “She’s a child!” Papa thundered.

  “And you’re a fool.”

  Papa swiveled his spear away from Karas’s neck and whipped it next to his comrade’s neck. “Better than a dead fool,”

  Darsal had never imagined, much less witnessed, a Scab defending a Forest Dweller. Either way, Papa had shown her his soft underbelly and removed his threat from Karas in one foolish move.

  Darsal could attack now, but not without endangering Karas. So she kicked her horse in the flanks, driving it against Karas’s mount. Before Papa could react, both horses bolted into the center of the sandy clearing.

  A second Shataiki landed on the rocks above them, squawking. They were still surrounded and outnumbered, but Karas was out of reach. At least for the moment.

  Papa grinned, attention back on them. “Smart,” he said, fanning out with the others to form a circle of six around them. “A viper indeed.”

  Darsal raised both hands. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Then cut your own wrists, wench,” the one called Bruntas growled.

  There was no winning here, Darsal knew. Not without the book. The Scabs would eventually kill them both. Regardless of Papas empathy for children, Horde law would end their lives.

  “Bruntas, that is your name? I could kill you from here with a flip of my wrist. Papa knows that, but you’re too stupid to realize it. Am I wrong?”

  The Scab blinked. Darsal moved then, while their minds were on her words. Both hands flashing to her hip-sheaths, withdrawing a knife from each. She let them fly forward in the manner Silvie had taught her.

  The blades took Bruntas and the Scab next to him in the necks. Darsal already had her sword out, spinning her horse to face the Scabs behind her. She slapped Karas’s mount as she turned.

  “Run for the gap!”

  Karas drove her horse at the two flailing Scabs.

  Darsal bolted at two others, screaming her guts out. Instead of going after both with her sword, she ducked under one of their blades and plowed her horse into theirs. Both backpedaled, snorting.

  The second Scab had a spear, but the weapon was hardly more than a beating stick at this close range. Darsal struck the nearest warrior with her sword, spun it once, and drove it into the second.

  “Darsal!” Karass cry cut through the desert air.

  The girl’s warning told her two things: that the girl had not fled as she’d ordered, and that Papa was now bearing down on her.

  She snatched the spear from the second Scab, who was now falling from his horse, twisted in her saddle, and hurled it with all her strength. She was halfway through the hurl before adjusting her sword to take out the Scab rushing her.

  The blade struck him in his chest, but his momentum carried him crashing into her. They toppled to the ground as one.

  She struggled to disengage the heavy, dead Scab who’d landed on top of her and finally succeeded, only to find Papa standing over her, sword extended.

  “Good fight, Forest Dweller. But I’m afraid it’s come to an end.”

  And he is right, Darsal thought. Her own sword lay on the sand, five paces away; her horse, which carried her other sword, had bolted across the clearing, taking the book with it.

  This behemoth of a Scab had a blade inches from her throat.

  “Do you know who the girl is?” Darsal asked.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Karas. Daughter of Witch.”

  Papa continued to grin, but his face suddenly appeared wooden. “Is that so? I had heard she was missing. Then I’ll let Witch decide what to do with her.”

  “No,” Karas said behind him. “You won’t.”

  She had dismounted and was walking toward them carrying nothing but the book.

  “And if you know what’s good for you,” she said to Papa, “you will bathe in some of the water we’ve brought and cleanse your mind of the disease.”

  “Stay back,” he snapped.

  Karas stopped and looked up at him. “Are you going to kill her?”

  “I have to. If you really are the daughter of Witch, you know that.” Then he added to make it clear, “Not that I don’t want to kill her, mind you.”

  Karas tossed the Book of History toward Darsal. “Then at least let her die in peace.” The book thudded to the sand, two feet away
.

  Darsal’s mind spun through her alternatives and settled on the only course of action that made sense.

  “Thank you.” Slowly she reached her hand to Papa’s sword. “Please, let me die with blood on the book. It’s the only way I can find paradise.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that?” he said. But he held his blade steady.

  She drew a single finger along the sword’s edge, then pulled it away. “See? Blood.”

  Papa stared at this new ritual he’d never heard of—how could he when she’d fabricated it just now? Darsal felt her hand tremble as she reached for the book. It was going to work. Please, Elyon, let this work …

  She lowered her bloody finger onto the leather cover. A hole large enough for any human to enter parted the air above her, buzzing with power. Darsal gasped. Her ears filled with the terrifying groan made by the dark, distorted figure beyond, who now beckoned her with his hand. She reached out. Touched the hole. Felt heat swim up her arm.

  She was on her back, so she couldn’t step in. But she didn’t need to, because the gateway began to move toward her. Swallowing first her hand, then her arm. Darsal began to shake.

  “Billos,” she muttered.

  The last thing she remembered was the sight of Karas diving through the air and grabbing her foot. Then her world went black.

  illos considered the two guiding objectives of this mission that Marsuvees Black had sent him on: to practice his already crafted power and to find the books.

  He stood with legs spread, understanding his situation perfectly He’d strolled into the village of Paradise with a tentative grasp of his own skill, engaged the enemy, and overcome six of them with ridiculous ease.

  But then, nothing less was expected of him—he was Billos of Southern, traveler of the books, wielder of the gun, born and bred to be master of all he put his hand to. This first test had been child’s play.

  The voices yelled outside, nearer now. This second attack wouldn’t be nearly as easy.

  To get the books first or to kill them, that was the question that stalled Billos perhaps a moment too long.