Green: The Beginning and the End (34 page)

42

None could possibly know who really walked past them on this otherwise plain summer day in middle America. They couldn’t know that he had black eyeballs and could read minds.

It was a very good day to be alive, because in so many ways Bill was already dead. But now, having fully accepted his death, he could get on with the business at hand. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to him, though he suspected that there was another man like him somewhere, living many years in the future.

Yes, that was right. To his recollection, he’d been in Bangkok in search of the Books of History, where he’d met Janae. They’d fallen into a trance of some kind. Gone somewhere he couldn’t quite recall. It had left the taste of bile in his mouth.

Then he’d awakened in Washington, D.C., thirty-some-odd years in the past, which was technically before he’d been born. He’d been sent back for only one purpose: To stop Thomas Hunter. And the devil had given him the eyes to follow Thomas wherever he went, even into his dreams.

And once he stopped Thomas, then what? He would probably die some terrible death, because there couldn’t be two of him running around.

Maybe he would become a monk, dye his hair black, find his way into a monastery somewhere, and wreak a little havoc. Help things along.

Or maybe not.

Getting the money he needed for his task had been easy. He’d simply walked into a Wells Fargo bank and taken what he needed from the manager’s mind to make an unexpected visit to the vault before the bank opened the next morning.

He thought it a good idea to create an identity, so he got the necessary documents with some of his hard-earned dollars, bought a ticket under the name Bill Smith, and boarded a plane to Denver.

And here he was, in Denver. This is where he would change history.

This is where he would find and kill Thomas before he could do whatever he was meant to do that made all hell scream with rage.

Bill sighed and adjusted his glasses as he entered the train. Yes, it was good to be alive. Because really . . . most definitely, he was already dead.

43

The sky was dark, and she was sure it wasn’t by coincidence. Evil hung in the air, threatening to burst through the veil at any moment. Eram’s army had left a wide swath of litter through the desert, traveling quickly without making camp. They’d eaten on the run and left the scraps from their meals scattered in their wake.

She approached Miggdon Valley from the northwest, following the Eramites’ trail, but rather than cut south to the western slope as they had, she’d veered farther east. If Samuel and his witch were on the western slope, her father would be on the eastern slope.

The last thing she wanted now was to encounter Samuel and his band of fools. She had but one goal.

Qurong. Her father, leader of the world, awaited her. This is what Michal must have meant when he said
the world awaits you
.

These were the thoughts that ran through Chelise’s mind as she closed in. But the moment she came upon the expansive scene in the Miggdon Valley, a chill swept over her.

She was too late!

The din of clashing metal joined with the roar of battle cries, rising from the valley floor like a hive of angry hornets.

“Easy.” She patted her stamping mount’s neck. “Easy.”

But nothing about this valley was easy. She quickly took stock of the chaos.

The main battle had been joined on the valley floor by upwards of a hundred thousand warriors already. Of those, more than half were down, either wounded or dead.

One of a dozen Horde catapults launched a ball of fire into the air. It arced over the valley, trailing a long ribbon of oily smoke, and streaked toward the armies below like a comet. The projectile slammed into a sea of flesh and mushroomed. Resin splattered in all directions, spreading fire. Burning men from both armies fled in all directions.

Then another, then another, then a fourth ball, all launched in rapid succession, each floating lazily through the sky before smashing into the warriors below. Twelve balls were sent as Chelise watched, and each took the lives of at least fifty tightly grouped fighters—half-breed, full-breed, or albino, it didn’t matter. They all burned like flies.

The main body of Qurong’s army broke from their position on the eastern ridge and began to flow into the valley. The sight was enough to stop her heart for a moment. Two or three hundred thousand, maybe more, all in black, rushed down the long slope to crush the enemy. Dust rose about their horses as they pounded down.

Their cries then reached her, delayed by the great distance. A dull roar of rage from so many open throats.

Then the Eramites, a smaller army but still massive, broke from the ridge to her right and rushed to collide. Led by albinos! The whole army, leaving none to guard the hill.

She’d half expected the albinos to come to their senses and turn back. But the witch’s tongue had clearly proven too crafty.

This was the final battle. When the dust settled, three or four hundred thousand would surely be dead on the ground.

She watched in horror as the two armies crashed into each other. It took a few moments, and then she heard the terrible sound of that initial clash, like two battering rams colliding head-on. She could see the thrusting lances, the sweeping maces bouncing surreally off bodies. From this distance, there was no blood, no flying body parts, only two massive walls of humanity tearing into each other.

And even as she watched, a third wave came from the Horde’s slope. Another army to join the first, bringing their total to well over half a million. They outnumbered the Eramites three to one!

But the Eramites had the witch’s brew. Teeleh’s breath. And if they’d found a way to deliver it, the tide would turn quickly.

Chelise was so overwhelmed by the display of brute force that she couldn’t think what to do. Then she saw the tall banners showing her father’s colors on the southern slope, and she realized that he was there, commanding from above.

But this was Qurong, and he would join his men in battle if there was any hint that they needed his help. She had to get to him. She had to stop him and force him to use reason in this hour of endings.

She should approach from the east, where the Horde army had lain waiting. Her father’s guard wouldn’t expect anyone from that side, and she stood a better chance of reaching him. In a time of war, they would have orders to kill any albino on sight. If she died, then her father was hopelessly lost.

“Hiyaa!”

Chelise spurred her horse and forced it east against its will. It would take her half an hour to reach the far side, and then only if she went unnoticed. If she found a stray Horde mount and wrapped herself in Horde dress, perhaps.

Reaching her father was all that mattered now.

He spun to the servant. “Get that dark witch! Drag him to me if you have to. Now!”

“Yes, my lord.”

His servant fled, and Qurong doubted he’d be back. Cassak was down the hill already, as were his Throaters, leaving only a thousand guards to maintain a perimeter around him.

Qurong turned back to the runner sent by Cassak. “Tell me again what has happened to the warriors. This makes no sense, none at all.”

“A spell, a sickness, I don’t know. But our men in the valley are suffering, my lord.”

“Suffering?” Qurong scoffed. “War is filled with suffering.” Yet there was no denying the ease with which the half-breeds were cutting through his ranks. From what he saw, the albinos were virtually unstoppable, slashing through his men with such wickedness that his best Throaters might as well be bound by rope.

“Aches and pain.” The runner turned frantic eyes down the hill. “They’re baying like wounded animals.”

“Cassak too?”

“All of them, my lord.”

“And you? What of you?”

“No. But I haven’t been in the fighting. The message was passed to me by another.”

“And did he have this ailment?”

“I can’t say. No, sire, I can’t say.”

This was impossible!

“Ba’al!” he thundered again. He loathed the man.

Then Qurong saw the high priest in the valley. He’d set up an altar in a protected enclave far to the east with a dozen of his wicked underlings. He looked to be sacrificing—of all things! A goat. Or a human, it was too far to see clearly.

Qurong watched in disbelief as the distant figure in purple raised both arms to an empty sky. Dark clouds had gathered, promising rain, but he could no longer see Shataiki. No magic in the air to slay the treasonous half-breeds.

When this was over, Qurong would sever Ba’al’s head from his shoulders himself. The man might have some personal tunnel to Teeleh’s lair, but he was a disgusting wraith, and a half-breed too. Let Teeleh feed on his flesh. The Horde needed a trustworthy man to guide them in spiritual matters.

He screamed his frustration into the valley, knowing that nothing could be heard down there but the clashing of metal and groans of men. “Ba’al!”

You’re wasting your breath, Qurong. Your army is falling.

He stared at the battle, red-faced. An albino close enough for Qurong to make out his dark, smooth skin was on foot, wielding a sword in both hands. He swung his sword as if it were a feather, slashing up and across a Throater’s chest, then sidestepping a thrown ax. Like a master among children. His own men looked far too sluggish.

It’s over. In one fell swoop they destroy you.

His mind fled the valley for a moment and embraced an image of Patricia, the wise woman who’d loved him always. He would die for her. And Chelise . . .

Dear Chelise, forgive me. Forgive me, my daughter
.

Qurong thrust out his hand, palm open. “Captain!”

The captain of his guard rushed forward and bowed.

“Give me my sword.”

“Sir?”

“My sword, Malachi! Give me my sword. I’m going down. Order the rest of your men to the battle. Today we will live or today we die.”

The blood of tens of thousands wet the ground; he could feel it squishing through his soaked boots. The valley was a butchering ground, pure and simple, and Qurong’s army had indeed been the butchered. Horses could no longer navigate the carcasses underfoot and had taken to the perimeter, where those who’d lost their courage tried to flee only to be cut down. By the look of it, Qurong had lost over half of his army, and the rest were feeling the full effects of Janae’s poison. Their own disease was eating them alive, and a wail rose on all sides as they dug at their flesh, desperate for relief.

But more than a third of the half-breeds lay dead as well. It was now only a matter of time before they cut down the last of Qurong’s massive force, but they had already lost enough to leave many wives and children weeping for months.

Samuel ducked under a swooshing mace and swung his sword full in the face of the Scab connected to the other end of the chain. His blade cut cleanly through his neck, and the man’s body took three more steps before tripping and falling over two other bodies.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
.

“Your back, Hunter!” a voice shouted.

Samuel spun in time to deflect a spear thrown by a young Scab now skewered at the end of Eram’s sword. The half-breed leader caught Samuel’s eye, then spun to ward off two Scabs who wielded long swords.

Samuel’s own joints screamed with pain, and the albinos fighting around him were covered in the scabbing disease. With each swing Samuel felt his father’s eyes on him.

There would be no men left. This wasn’t an attack against the Horde. It was the
end
of the Horde. The carnage sickened him.

Samuel stopped and stood gasping in the middle of the battlefield, like a man caught in the eye of a storm, calm for the moment. He turned slowly and surveyed the butchery. The scene whipped by him with dizzying speed. A man with no arm, screaming, another staggering as he ran, blinded. An albino weeping. Weeping though he looked untouched by a blade.

The battle would be won soon. In thirty minutes, the great Qurong’s army would be dead and rotting on the ground. Flies had already come by the hundreds of thousands. The stench of Horde flesh had become familiar to Samuel, but bleeding Horde flesh was much worse, and the smell now clogged his nostrils like so much rotting skin.

On all sides the massacre raged. Samuel moved to avoid a spear hurled at him. The Scab stared at him, then fell to his knees and began to weep. He was but a teenager, crying out his mother’s name in a mournful wail. Martha.

“Shut up!” Samuel screamed. “Stop it!”

The boy either didn’t hear him or refused. Furious, Samuel raced forward, leaping over the bodies in his way. He screamed his anger and swung his sword at a full run.

He stood over his kill, overcome by a wave of nausea.
Father. Please, Father.
He fell to his knees beside the slain body and touched the boy’s warm flesh.

Mother
. . . A deep sorrow welled up from his past.
Dear Mother, forgive me
.

And then the dam that had separated the boy in him from the man broke, and Samuel began to weep. He sat back on his haunches, clenched his eyes against the dark sky, spread his arms wide, and began to wail his anguish.

What had he done? What kind of deception had he ingested? How could he undo this catastrophe?

But it was too late. It was already done. He’d betrayed his father.

Samuel wept.

It would be better now if someone killed him where he sat, crying like a baby. How could he live knowing that this slaughter had been his doing? He’d been born in his father’s image, destined to save the world. Instead he’d played the very Judas his father often spoke of. A traitor.

Slowly the sorrow became anger. Then rage. And then the sky above him became black and the battlefield around him grew silent, and the distant thought that he might be dead crossed his mind. He opened his eyes.

A host of Shataiki, a million strong if there was one, circled no more than a thousand yards above the valley, swirling black tar stuffed with mangy fur and red cherries. He could feel the breeze from their wings as they swept overhead in silence.

The battle around him had come to a halt; the horror painted on the skies above was laid bare for all to see. And Samuel knew the full truth then.

They’d broken their covenant with Elyon, leaving the way clear for the Shataiki to destroy them at will. What kind of evil Ba’al and Qurong were dealing, he didn’t know, but he doubted they would be consumed. No, that honor belonged to the half-breeds, to the albinos.

Janae had convinced them all to turn their backs on the protection that came from bathing in Elyon’s lakes. And in truth, Samuel had known all along, hadn’t he? Deep beneath the disease clouding his mind, he’d known that the witch was Teeleh’s handmaiden, because she’d come from the desert bearing his mark.

She was Teeleh’s handmaiden, and Samuel, son of Hunter, was her fool.

He stood to his feet, staring at the sky, blinded by a debilitating rage. It was over. He’d come to kill Qurong, the father whom his mother loved more than she loved even her own kind. Instead he’d killed all
but
Qurong.

He’d slaughtered the world.

Samuel trembled, wishing death on himself. The dead were a feast, easy prey, blood and flesh for the Shataiki who’d waited for this meal since their captivity in the Black Forest. And Samuel, son of Hunter, was the one serving their meal.

Screams and chaos rose from the valley far behind him, and he turned slowly. To a man, the armies of both Qurong and Eram were gripped by the sight of a single stream of black bats flowing to the ground at the battlefield’s far side, two hundred yards away.