Green: The Beginning and the End Read online

  The boy reached out for Thomas’s hand. Took his fingers.

  The last reserves of Thomas’s poise snapped. He slumped to one side and began to shake with sobs. The boy held his hand, and Thomas gripped the frail fingers as if they were his only thread to life. He wept with deep, air-gulping sobs.

  Waves of gratitude swept over him, and he knew that he’d been wrong a moment ago. The waters were not the hope for which Elyon himself had died.

  This . . .

  He could hardly bear to think it . . . but this . . . this was the great hope for which they were all created. For this moment.

  There was nothing else that could possibly matter other than to hold the hand of the one who’d formed you with his breath.

  Thomas could not stop, he simply could not, and the boy made no attempt to suggest he do so. Thomas curled into a ball, clung to the boy’s hand, and wet the sand under his face with tears.

  It all made sense now. The pain, the death, the days and nights of fear as the Horde stalked them.

  The ridicule, the disease, the fall.

  The tears of the mother whose child had fallen and broken her jaw. The agony of the father who had lost his son to an arrow. For the pleasure set before them they, like Elyon himself, had endured it all.

  Time seemed to stall.

  When it occurred to Thomas that the boy had released his hand, he pushed himself up to his knees, meaning to beg forgiveness for his display, yet one more indiscretion. Because he was human, he might say, and humans stumbled over their indiscretions like oversized boots.

  But the boy was gone. In his place stood a middle-aged man with a graying beard and a strong jaw. He wore a white tunic. Before Thomas could make the adjustment from Elyon the boy to Elyon the father, the man turned and stared at him with misty green eyes. “They’re denying my love, Thomas,” the elder said.

  “No . . .” He looked at the desert below and for the first time saw what they were looking at. Far below them lay a great valley lined on all sides with armies that stretched far into the desert.

  The valley of the miggdon figs.

  “What can I do?” the man whispered.

  But Thomas was still far too absorbed by the love that swam about them to consider any dilemma seriously. Let them destroy themselves, he thought. Let those who deny your love slaughter themselves. Just let me stay with you.

  “They’ve turned away,” the man said.

  A white lion stepped past Thomas and gazed at the scene below. Thomas jumped to his feet. All of the lions had crossed the sand and now stood in two lines on either side of their master, fixated upon the gathered Horde armies.

  The man turned away from the scene and paced. He ran his fingers through his gray hair, deep in thought. “I made them. I wove them together in the secret place, I knit them in the mother’s womb.”

  Thomas recognized the words from a song the Circle sang. A psalm.

  “All their days were ordained, written in my book. They are my poem, created for such wonders.” His eyes lifted to Thomas. “But I gave them their own book and let them write in it. Now look what they have done.”

  Thomas thought he might tear his hair out.

  “What have I done, what have I done?” The man spun back to the cliff and thrust his arm to the horizon. “Look!”

  Thomas looked. Something else had been added to the distant mix of Horde ready to wage war. They were Qurong’s army, gathered to battle Eram’s army, and for a fleeting moment Thomas wondered if Samuel was caught up in the mix. But what he saw now swept the worry aside.

  A massive black swirl of Shataiki circled over the valley—millions of the black beasts, ravenous for the human blood that nourished them.

  “Look,” Michal said, pointing to the west.

  A flood of white approached like a wave of clouds. A sea of Roush.

  Thomas could only think one thing now: This is the end. This is the end.

  The man lifted both arms and wept at the sky. His shoulders shook with his sobs and tears ran down his face, wetting his beard. The lions turned to him and fell to their faces, hindquarters raised as they bowed. As one they moaned, a dreadful sound that filled Thomas with fear.

  Elyon’s wail began to run out of breath. Slowly he lowered his head, arms still raised, chest heaving to find air. But his stare began to change from one couched in anguish to a glare filled with rage.

  His face flushed red and his cheeks began to quiver. Alarmed, Thomas tried to step back, but his feet would not move.

  And then Elyon screamed, full throated, at the sky. His hands knotted into fists and he trembled from head to foot with such wrath that Thomas could not stop his own body from quaking.

  The lions roared as one, and the whole earth was swallowed in a thunder of protest that shook it to the very foundations.

  Still the cry raged with inexhaustible fury. Thomas fell to his knees and threw his arms over his head.

  “Bring us home!” he cried. “Rescue your bride!”

  But he was yelling at the sand and no one seemed to be listening. He could hardly hear himself.

  “Bring”—the roar ceased midsentence—“us home. Rescue us. For the sake of the Great Romance, rescue your bride from this terrible day.”

  Silence hung around him, broken only by his own breathing. He snapped his eyes wide. Michal was flying off, fifty feet from the edge of the cliff. The lions were gone. The man . . .

  Thomas stood slowly. Elyon was gone?

  “Thomas?”

  He caught his breath and spun to the voice. The boy stood by the red pool, staring at him with daring eyes. Had so much time passed?

  “It’s time,” the boy said.

  “It’s over?”

  The boy hesitated, then spoke without answering the question directly. “When it is, you’ll know. And what you felt—that was only child’s play, my friend.”

  He winked.

  Elyon winked.

  And Thomas could not keep his knees still.

  “Follow me, Thomas!” the boy cried. He took three light steps down the bank, dived into the red pool, and vanished beneath the shimmering surface.

  Thomas began to run while the boy was still in the air. It wasn’t until he was aloft, falling toward the water, that he wondered how deep it was.

  He plunged beneath the surface and knew that these were Elyon’s waters, and his lake had no bottom.

  39

  THE VALLEY of Miggdon ran fifty miles through the high plains, where the fig trees that bore its name grew in abundance. But here at the head, it resembled more of a box canyon. Four sloping descents fell to an immense basin that was known to flood every few years when a rare rain visited this part of the world.

  Samuel sat on a horse next to Eram and Janae, studying the lay of what would become their battlefield. Qurong had made no attempt to hide his army on the eastern crest. Their Throaters were mounted on steeds the full length of the valley, a thousand wide by his calculations. And at least two hundred deep.

  Two hundred thousand cavalry on the far slope, only a thousand yards away.

  The differences between the three armies were pronounced. Qurong’s Horde used all manner of horses, no longer attempting to blend with the desert sands. Both Eramite and albino favored lighter-colored horses. The distinction extended to their battle dress. Where once the Forest Guard favored dark leather to blend into the forests, they now warded off arrows and blades in tan leathers, much like the Eramites, whose main infantry also wore helmets.

  It was dark against light, the dark being Horde, the light being both Eramite and albino.

  But beyond this distinction, the Eramites and Horde looked almost identical. They both used heavier armor that covered their joints, because the scabbing disease made quick movement in any joint painful. The Eramites who chewed the numbing beetle nut suffered less pain, but how much of an advantage this would prove to be on the battlefield was untested.

  Tall scythes and spears carried by a full half of t
he Horde warriors rose like the charred skeletons of trees after a forest fire. They sat on their dark horses stoically, as if the mere sight of them could speak doom to any who dared not flee.

  Qurong had divided his Horde army into four classes of fighters:

  The Throaters. Qurong’s elite fighters, who favored bows and long swords, almost always fought from their mounts. These were the Scabs that had hunted albinos for more than ten years with devastating results.

  The grunts. Both cavalry and infantry, grunts were trained in long-reach hand-to-hand combat, using spears and maces or long swords—any heavy weapon that did not require speed in order to kill with a single blow. A spiked ball at the end of a five-foot chain didn’t require quick reflexes to swing with any strength. But step into the arc of one of these maces, and either the sharpened chains or the spikes themselves would remove an arm or a head.

  Infantry archers. Though their bamboo arrows could be deadly up to a hundred yards, they often found the wrong mark and were almost useless once two armies collided. On this battlefield, Qurong would only use them when the Eramites were caught in the open, unless he was willing to sacrifice his own fighters in a fusillade of indiscriminate arrows.

  The throwers. The final group was by far the smallest, perhaps two or three dozen catapults that hurled straw balls soaked in the resin of Qaurkat trees and ignited. The three-foot balls splattered upon impact, soaking a fifteen-foot radius with the sticky, flaming fuel. Samuel counted twelve of them on the eastern ridge. They tended to break, and would be quickly replaced by others in reserve.

  This was the Horde army, similar to the Eramite army except for the variation in armor and the absence of artillery, which proved difficult to transport.

  The skill of five thousand albinos, on the other hand, made a mockery of both Horde and Eramite. They left all joints free for ease of movement. Whether mounted or on foot, they depended on speed and strength and favored medium-length swords that could change direction almost immediately in the hands of a skilled fighter. They carried knives for throwing—a single warrior might carry as many as ten knives into a fight—and a deadly accurate bow with shorter arrows for short-range confrontations.

  Never in history had all three enemies faced each other on one battlefield, and Samuel now considered his orchestration of the events with a mixture of pride and fear.

  For months, Samuel had roamed the desert and skirted the forests with his loyal guard while envisioning the day they would return to war. But he’d never conceived of this massive gathering of armies for what could only be a brutal engagement. And yet here they were, because of his hotheaded defiance.

  An image of his father entered his mind, but he pushed it out.

  “He’s there,” Eram said, nodding at the southern ridge to their right. “With at least fifty thousand of his best warriors.”

  “I don’t see the colors,” Samuel said, looking for the tall purple flags that identified the supreme commander’s guard.

  “No, not now. But trust me, he’s there. And he’ll launch his first attack from there, not from the main body.”

  “How so?”

  “He means to draw us in. His one advantage is size, but to use it he has to find a way to descend on my army.”

  “What size would you say?” Samuel scratched the rash that had begun to overtake his skin. The fact that his rash had worsened, whereas Janae’s rash hadn’t, wasn’t lost on him. She still looked albino. His skin, on the other hand, looked very much like it had contracted the scabbing disease. Worse, he could no longer deny the pain spreading through his limbs.

  It had been many years since he’d heard of any albino contracting the disease after drowning. He hadn’t even known it was possible. For all he knew, it wasn’t, and this was something else the witch had passed on to him, some foul disease she’d contracted from the Shataiki when she’d whored herself out to him. Either way, he couldn’t breathe a word of it. Being albino was his one great advantage.

  Eram spat red beetle-nut juice to one side. “Our scouts put them at three hundred thousand today.”

  Maybe he should try some of the beetle nut. Nearly all the Eramites ground the mild analgesic between their molars, turning their mouths red. They looked like they’d fed on blood, Samuel thought.

  “So where are the rest?”

  Eram scanned the desert. “How would I know? Back in Qurongi, nursing their wounds. Or suffering under one of Ba’al’s curses. Even at half strength, they’re twice as many as we.”

  Samuel looked down the line at their own army, stretching as far as he could see. The albino traitors were mounted on horses to his left, some looking fierce, others unsure. Regardless, they were all heavily armed, and once the first blow was struck, they would fight with the pent-up rage of a wounded pit bull.

  “Half their strength,” Samuel said, “but twice as strong.”

  “So you’ve claimed.”

  “And you’ve agreed. I would expect the other half of his army to be close by.”

  The crafty Eramite leader nodded his head slowly. “Perhaps. No report from our scouts. But I will say this for that old monkey: he’s no fool. If I were in his boots, I would have chosen this very valley. These slopes will allow him to use his army to its full advantage. Honestly, if not for Teeleh’s poison, I would reconsider.”

  Samuel glanced at Janae, who was looking at the valley unconcerned. Her beauty in the morning light quickened his heart. “But we do have the poison,” he said. And this woman is my poison, he thought to himself.

  Eram kept his eyes on the larger Horde army directly across the valley. “They’ll send in a small force to lure us in, and we’ll take the bait. We’ll send twice as many, without poison.”

  “Qurong will crush them with a second wave.”

  “We’ll commit our full force at that time, with poison. This breath of Teeleh had better work, because we face impossible odds without it. Ba’al’s no fool. That old conniving wraith surely has a trick up his sleeve.”

  “For a daring leader who defied Qurong once—”

  “I left Qurong to live, not to die! Don’t question my judgment or I’ll cut you down where you stand. The last thing I need is an insolent fool who’s turning Scab.”

  The reference to the disease cut deeply, and Samuel was sorely tempted to lash out. But he couldn’t engage Eram on the matter, not now, not when they were fully committed to a bloody end.

  “You may not need Samuel,” Janae said softly, “but you do need me. Now if you’re done being men, we should get on with the rites. I want the albinos to come to me first. Then the rest, until every last warrior has made the vow and taken his poison.”

  Samuel looked at her. “Albinos? They don’t need your poison.”

  Her eyes flashed, stopping him cold. “They all drink the bloody water. They all take the mark. They all vow their allegiance to me!”

  He swallowed. It was so wrong. Yet so right.

  “It’s a disease, not blood,” he corrected.

  She studied him, then softened slightly. “The disease comes from his blood. We follow my instructions to the letter. Gather them now.”

  “Albinos first,” Eram said, swinging his horse around. Naturally, he was no respecter of race at a time like this. “You’re their leader; bring them to the pond.” To his general: “Ready the others. If Qurong dispatches a division into the valley, engage them with twice his number. But none who’ve ingested this poison.”

  “Understood.”

  Samuel had given charge to Petrus, whom he trusted with his life, and Vadal, who served as a constant reminder to the five thousand that even the son of Ronin the elder had joined them. Each commanded half of the albinos, but at a moment’s notice, Samuel could step in and take full control.

  He signaled to both, and they ordered their fighters to the rear.

  The horses seemed to sense the unique danger, where whole armies and peoples were in jeopardy of slaughter. No one spoke, but there were whispers
among the albinos now. A thousand yards separated their army from one much larger, and by all appearances as bloodthirsty as any Shataiki legion. The fact that Qurong had chosen the battlefield and was here waiting didn’t help either.

  But they had this one gift from Elyon. Teeleh’s breath, given to them by Elyon to slaughter the Horde. A bad thing for a good cause. War. The thought sickened Samuel.

  But this was his lot. This was his destiny. He was Samuel of Hunter, and the whole world would know his name.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

  It was with a sense of fatalism that the albinos encircled the large pond half a mile behind the valley and stood at ease, watching Janae’s every move. They were two-thirds men and a third women, and all were better fighters than any Horde could hope to be in their wildest dreams.

  They were also smarter, Samuel thought. They could not possibly miss the signs of the scabbing disease that covered his skin.

  Vadal was the first to express what was on their minds. “What’s the meaning of this disease, Samuel?” The man was chewing a beetle nut.

  Janae lifted up the vial for all to see and answered for Samuel. “To test you, my love.” She sniffed the bottle. “Do I have the scabbing disease? Do you?”

  Vadal spit on the ground and glanced about without answering her.

  “No? Yet you were in the proximity of this poison at the camp. You have no faith in Elyon’s prophet?”

  Vadal looked at Samuel. “And you?” he asked with a red mouth.

  “You heard her,” Samuel said. “Isn’t it true that to defeat the evil, one must first die? To overcome the scabbing disease, we pay a price. If you doubt, leave now.”

  The albinos looked at him like ghosts lost on the plain. But none walked away.

  “When you have all partaken, to the last warrior, Samuel will have paid his price and the disease will leave him. Take out your knives.”

  They hesitated only a moment, then did so.

  “You too, lover,” she said to Samuel.

  He hesitated, then followed her order.

  Forgive me, Father . . . Forgive me.

  “As a sign of your loyalty to Elyon and his prophet, you will draw three marks on your forehead or your arm.” She slipped out her knife and carved three lines on her own forearm. “Like so.”