The Future
THE HIGH crater at Ba’al Bek was a good half mile across, ringed by a thick lip of soil and rock. A boulder from the heavens might have created it, or the fist of a giant, or a belch from Teeleh for all Thomas knew.
What he did know was that the whole plateau stank of rotting Scab flesh.
The four albinos had crossed the gorges and now sat on their horses, peering into the high place with a red sun sinking to the west. Behind them, canyons offered cover from any attack.
Ahead, barren ground up to a single row of tall boulders that ringed Ba’al Bek’s famed stone altar. This was the first time he’d seen the altar. The Circle had gone deep into the desert for nearly six years after Qurong turned his full wrath on them.
“We have company,” Mikil said.
Thomas looked up at the far rim and saw the purple banner sticking over the crest. Then more banners, then heads and horses.
“Qurong’s taken up the challenge,” Mikil said. “I don’t like this, Thomas. This can’t be good.”
The Horde marched in two columns, each led by a contingent of two dozen Throaters, then the priests. Dozens of priests. They kept coming, two hundred priests or more, by Thomas’s reckoning.
Dear Elyon, what have I done?
Ba’al sat in a litter, rocking on the shoulders of eight servants. Qurong rode tall on a black stallion opposite the dark priest, dressed in full battle gear. His own guard, thirty or forty from the Scab cavalry, rode on either side of him. They bore swords, battle axes, sickles, and perhaps the most dreaded weapon in their arsenal, a simple chain with two spiked balls that could be thrown to take down prey from fifty yards. Mace.
The rattling of a thousand bells on the edges of the priests’ robes sounded like a desert full of cicadas in the early evening.
“We’re mice among lions,” Jamous said. “Are you sure about this, Thomas?”
“I thought you said priests only.” Mikil had faced her share of long odds, but never this and not for many years. “They’ve brought half a battalion!”
“It’s for their defense, not to take us out,” Thomas said.
Samuel’s mount stamped its feet. A grin twisted his face. “They still fear us. What did I tell you? We could take them.”
“Four against hundreds?” Mikil scoffed. “Even in our ‘full glory’ as you like to call it, these would have been unfeasible odds.”
“Impossible,” Jamous mumbled.
Samuel came alive in the presence of his enemies. “The priests are unarmed. We could at least take Qurong and that witch. That would set the Horde far back. Without a head, the snakes crawl into their holes.”
Thomas almost pointed out that Samuel’s foolishness had brought them here in the first place. Or that a dead high priest would only be replaced by another live one. Or that these were not their true enemies. The real enemy was peering at them from his hidden perch on the crest somewhere. Teeleh and his host from hell, the Shataiki.
But Samuel doubted Teeleh and the Shataiki and even Elyon, for that matter.
Thomas headed his horse down the slope.
“You’re sure, Thomas?” Mikil kicked her horse to follow.
Thomas kept his eyes on the entourage snaking over the crest. Bulls pulled six large chests on carts. Then the goats trotted in. He wasn’t sure what Ba’al had up his sleeve, but he doubted Teeleh had a taste for goats. This was all for show.
“Thomas.” Mikil drew her horse abreast his. “Please tell me you’ve thought this through.”
“You’re asking me now? Isn’t it a bit late?”
“I didn’t believe it would come to this. You’ve been brooding.”
“My mood has just lightened, Mikil. For the first time in far too long I feel like I have nothing to lose.”
“Only your faith,” Samuel said, pulling abreast.
“If Elyon doesn’t show himself tonight, it only means that he wants me dead,” Thomas said.
“And the Horde as well.”
Thomas gave him that. “If I lose this challenge, then I will assume the way of peace has passed, and I will take down as many Horde as I can before my skin turns.”
“Thomas Hunter will kill again?” Samuel said. “Did I hear that right?”
“Thomas Hunter will die. Again.”
“You’ll tell them where our camps are?”
“As promised.”
They headed into Ba’al Bek, four abreast, facing an entourage that dwarfed them.
“And if you succeed in this challenge,” Mikil said, “if Elyon shows himself, you actually expect that Qurong will agree to come with us and drown?”
“He’s agreed already.”
“He’ll betray you,” Samuel said. “But I don’t think you have much worry there; he isn’t going to lose this challenge.”
Thomas looked at his son. “Maybe not. But if he does lose, I’ll have won my own son back, and that for me is worth his betrayal.”
Samuel tried to smile. His twisted lips looked stupid on his crimson face.
The tall rocks that circled the altar rose above them now, red in the sunset. The light would be gone within the hour. Thomas would have preferred to confront Ba’al in broad daylight, but it was what it was.
Qurong and his dark priest had reached the high place and waited for the host of priests to take up their position on the altar’s left. The Throaters were fanning out on either side as if they expected an attack from the high ground.
“Imagine what we could do with a dozen archers,” Samuel said, scanning the crater’s rim. “We could make pin cushions out of them in a matter of minutes.”
He was right. A dozen years ago, this setup would have provided the perfect ambush for the Forest Guard. Thomas understood Samuel’s desires to destroy his enemies. It was the most natural instinct man possessed.
Love the enemy. This was the scandalous teaching of Elyon. It went completely against human nature.
It struck Thomas then that Eram, the half-breed from the north, could just as easily sweep in with his army, surround the crater, and destroy all of his enemies—both the albinos and the leader of the Horde—in one fell swoop.
“Tell us what to do.” Mikil spoke quickly, uneasy.
“I will. As soon as I know.”
“Elyon help us all.”
“Isn’t that the idea? To see if those words have any meaning?”
Thomas led the four past the ring of boulders like an arrow into the heart of darkness. It had been a while since Thomas had been so close to Scab flesh. He’d forgotten just how rancid it was. Only as he drew closer did he see the reason: none of the priests had applied the morst paste.
He pulled up and faced Ba’al, who still sat on his cushioned throne under the silk canopy. His servants had set him down. Qurong gazed off to his right, refusing to dignify them with a square look. His general, the one named Cassak if Thomas was right, sat in stoic silence beside him, eyes on Ba’al.
Who led the Horde these days, anyway? Ba’al or Qurong?
Both, he guessed. The thin serpent wielded Teeleh’s power over the people, and the muscled warrior wielded the sword.
Ba’al stood and slinked forward. A black silk dress clung to his body from his armpits to his heels. A purple sash wrapped around his neck hung down to his belly. But his shoulders were bare, white, bony.
Three scars marked his forehead. All the others bore the same marks, something Thomas’s scouts first reported about a year ago.
“I’ve come to speak to Qurong,” Thomas said. “Not to his servant.”
Ba’al made no show of being bothered by this underhanded insult, but Qurong would take note.
“Welcome, pale one,” the dark priest said. “The supreme commander, ruler of humans, servant of Teeleh our master has accepted your challenge.”
“Then let the master speak for himself. Is he your puppet?”
This time the witch’s left eyelid twitched. “Don’t assume that all men would stoop to speak to you, albino,” Ba’al said.
“But you do. For more than ten years I’ve evaded the death sentence placed upon me and my wife . . . I think that earns me the right to be acknowledged by the ruler of this earth.” Thomas watched Qurong as he spoke.
“Then perhaps you overestimate yourself as much as you overestimate your God.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Thomas said. “Don’t get your silk dress all hitched up for the dance just yet. I insist on speaking to your leader.”
Ba’al stared. His gray eyes betrayed no emotion, no resentment, no sign that Thomas offended him. This was a wicked man, more Shataiki than human, Thomas thought. The night seemed to have turned inordinately cold.
“Can we please dispense with all the fancy footwork?” Qurong said, eyeing Thomas for the first time. “You’ve cast a challenge, I’ve accepted. My priest will invoke the power of Teeleh and you will call on your God. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to accommodate this game of yours. I suggest we get started. What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Anything your dark priest would like.”
None of the three behind Thomas spoke a word or moved. Ba’al kept his haunting, unblinking stare on him. With a little imagination Thomas could see the conniving brain behind those eyes spinning like a beetle tied to a string. For a long time the only sound came from the occasional snorting or shifting of a Throater’s horse.
“Is that your son?” Ba’al asked, looking at Samuel.
“I see you’ve taken to mutilating your foreheads,” Thomas said. “The mark of your beast, is that it?”
The white wraith in human form named Ba’al, who was the wickedest of all Horde, raised his hand and extended a thin finger to the horizon. “From the east the pale one will bring peace and command the sky. He will purge the land with a river of blood in the valley of Miggdon. We will offer ourselves to him on that day of reckoning. The question is, will you?”
“No. We will not. We submit to Elyon and to no one else.”
The priest eyed him. His mouth was paper thin, scarcely more than flaps of white flesh to keep the bugs from his teeth. He raised one hand by his head and snapped fingers so delicate Thomas wondered how the snap alone didn’t break them.
“We shall see, albino.”
Two of the priests hurried over to one of the bull-drawn carts. While one unhitched the beast, the other pulled a large, white silk blanket from the chest. Then a silver goblet.
The rest watched, bare of emotion, as the two priests urged the bull forward, tied it to one of four bronze rings on the altar, and draped the white blanket over the beast’s back. One of them strapped a ruby-colored cushion on top. A saddle. The priests hurried back to their posts, bells jangling with the shuffle of their feet. The whole operation took two dozen seconds, no more.
What Ba’al could possibly mean to demonstrate by saddling up a bull was beyond Thomas, but the man’s continuous, unwavering stare didn’t sit well with him.
“Do you like the sight of blood, Thomas?” Ba’al asked.
“Not particularly.” Dear Elyon, do not keep your face hidden now, not now. The whole world is watching, and I’m powerless. Then, as an afterthought: Give the word and I will take this man’s head from his shoulders for you.
“I suggest you get used to it, albino. Because our god demands blood. Pools of blood. Rivers of blood. Blood from the necks of our own.”
“Your god, Teeleh”—Thomas spat to one side—“may be a blood-thirsty—” Ba’al moved while Thomas spoke, snatching a hidden sword from his back, slashing down with lightning speed. The blade struck the bull on its spine, just above the shoulder blades, and cut cleanly through its neck.
Samuel’s sword scraped its scabbard as he withdrew it.
The bull’s head dropped from its torso and landed on the earth with a dull thump. For a long moment, the animal stood still, unaware of the blood that pumped from its arteries onto the ground. Then it took a half step and collapsed.
A soft moan broke from the two hundred priests, now swaying in their black robes. The slaying happened so quickly that Thomas didn’t think to react.
Ba’al spread his arms wide and spoke to the darkening sky. “Accept my offering, Teeleh, one and true god of all that lives and breathes, dragon of the sky. May your vengeance find fulfillment through my hands.”
He lowered his head and glared at Thomas. “Tell your friends to drop their weapons.”
The moans ceased.
“Not for you. Not for any Scab,” Samuel spat.
Ba’al dropped his own blade. “Tell him.”
“Drop it, Samuel.”
“Father—”
“All of you, drop your weapons!”
They weren’t here for battle or to defend themselves. It took a few seconds, but Thomas heard the blades fall. Qurong sat on his horse, staring at the dead bull as two priests hurried in and collected the weapons from the ground. The Throaters closed off any avenue of escape, leaving only their rear unguarded.
“This is only a bull, not enough to satiate the true god,” Ba’al said. “The stakes here are far too great for an ordinary display of loyalty.” He pointed to his gathered faithful. “I will put the life of Teeleh’s loyal subjects up against the life of only one albino. We will see which one the true god delivers.”
The implications ran through Thomas’s chest like a blade. His own life against these swaying witches. His mind stalled at the thought. What was the priest suggesting, that he lie on the altar and take the blade the way the bull had?
But he’d come here to either die or be saved. Any further hesitation would only make a mockery of all he stood for.
“Against your witches,” Thomas said, “and you. Agreed.”
Ba’al’s eyes shifted over Thomas’s right shoulder. “We will all bleed and trust our master to show his power as he has in the past. All of them. And then your son. And then me.”
Thomas froze. “Never! Myself, not my son.”
“You don’t trust your god to deliver even this one albino? Is your son beyond Elyon’s reach?”
“I decide for me, not for my son.” Thomas spoke the words, but his mind was crying out to Elyon already. He had been tricked. Pushed into a corner. He saw the trap, but failing to see a way to break free, his mind cried out. Then his lips, in a barely audible whisper. “Elyon . . . Elyon, I beg you . . .”
“I haven’t asked your son about his faith in this God you serve,” Ba’al said. “I’m asking if you have the faith to put his life in your God’s hands.”
Thomas felt his lifelines slipping. He’d expected any scenario but this. How could he offer up his own son?
“Do you believe Elyon will save your son?”
The cool night air had gone frigid.
“Elyon has no limits.”
“Father—”
“And if your son doesn’t agree?” Ba’al cut in. “Would that weaken your faith? Would you be frightened that Teeleh would steal your child the way you stole Qurong’s child?”
Chelise. Qurong sat with jaw fixed.
“Listen to me, you skinny little witch,” Thomas bit off. “My son, like Chelise, decides for himself whether he lives or dies. He’s not your bull to slaughter.”
“I thought Elyon and Teeleh were to decide who would live or die. I’m only asking if you, not your son, will give Elyon the opportunity to decide.”
Thomas’s face flushed with indignation. But he truly was ensnared by this pathetic wretch’s challenge. If he delayed in giving his consent, it would only show his doubt. He’d come to prove his faith in Elyon, and already he was flapping around like a wounded chicken.
But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He couldn’t stand here and— Do you want to swim with me?
Thomas’s pulse spiked.
Swim in my waters, Thomas.
The distant voice whispered. The same voice he’d heard on occasion in the deepest part of Elyon’s waters. A boy’s voice, so tender, full of mischief and life. Elyon . . .
“What did I tell you, my lord?” Ba’al said to Qurong. “I’ve handed you a victory with the slaying of one bull. The great Thomas of Hunter doesn’t have—”
“I accept your challenge,” Thomas snapped. “I would offer my son. But I can’t speak for him.”
“No. But I can.” Ba’al nodded.
Thomas twisted on his horse and felt the blood drain from his face. The Throaters had closed the gaps between the boulders fifty yards behind Mikil, Jamous, and Samuel. None of them had any weapons.
There was no escape, not even for a fighter of Samuel’s caliber.
Ba’al was going to bleed his son.
“Come, my master,” Ba’al whispered in a trembling voice. “Enter your servant.”
Six Throaters rode in from the left, swords drawn. They didn’t hesitate as they would have if facing an armed warrior of the Guard, but stormed straight toward Samuel, slamming into his horse. One of them whipped a long chain around his son’s throat and tugged.
“Father . . .”
“Let him go! Release him!” Thomas spurred his horse into the fray, took the butt of a sword on his chin and blindly struck out with a fist. He felt his knuckles sink into spongy Scab flesh. The warrior he’d hit grunted and swung his spear like a stick. It glanced off Thomas’s shoulder.
Panic joined his desperation. Even if there was a chance to overpower the Throaters, he would betray his own challenge by attempting anything so foolish.
The sound of a brutal blow to Samuel’s flesh made him recoil. A grunt. Then silence. They’d dragged Samuel to the ground and knocked him out.
Thomas spun back to Ba’al, swallowing against the dread rising in his gut. “This wasn’t my challenge!”
The dark priest was staring at the dusk sky, hands raised and trembling. He jerked his head down. “It is mine.”
Whimpers and murmuring spread through Ba’al’s priests, their eyes on the darkening sky. Thomas looked up.
At first glance it appeared as if a huge black cloud had drifted over the high place and was slowly rotating—a hurricane forming several miles over their heads.
But this wasn’t a cloud, Thomas saw. For the first time in many years, the Shataiki were showing themselves. Hundreds of thousands of the black beasts peered down with red eyes, having gathered to watch the butchery.
Elyon . . . Dear Elyon, help us . . .