Red (15 page)

“Markus.” He turned.

His men were staring at three men who'd ridden into camp. The one who led them rode a white horse that snorted and pawed at the soft earth. He wore a beige tunic with a studded brass belt and a hood that covered his head in a manner not unlike the Scabs. Not true battle dress. A scabbard hung on his saddle.

Jamous stood and faced the camp. His men seemed oddly captivated by the sight. Why? All three looked like lost woodsmen, strong, healthy, the kind who might make good warriors with enough training, but they certainly had nothing that would set them apart.

And then the leader lifted his emerald eyes to Jamous.

Justin of Southern.

The mighty warrior who'd defied Thomas by turning down the general's greatest honor now spent his days wandering the forests with his apprentices, a self-appointed prophet spreading illogical ideas that turned the Great Romance on its head. He'd once been very popular, but his demanding ways were proving too much for many, even for some of the pliable fools who followed him diligently.

Still, this man before him threatened the very fabric of the Great Romance with his heresy, and his rhetoric was growing stronger, they said. Mikil had once told Jamous that if she ever met Justin again, she wouldn't hesitate to withdraw her sword and slay him where he stood. She suspected that he had been manipulated by the druids from the deep desert. If the Horde were the enemy from without, men like Justin, who decried the Great Romance and spoke of turning the forest over to the Desert Dwellers, were the enemy from within.

The fact that Justin had turned down his promotion to general and resigned from the Forest Guard two years ago when Thomas needed him most didn't help.

Jamous spit to one side, a habit he'd picked up from Mikil. “Markus, tell this man to leave our camp if he wishes to live.” He walked for his bedroll. “We have war to wage.”

“You are the one they call Jamous.”

The man's voice was soft and low. Confident. The voice of a leader. It was no wonder he'd bewitched so many. It was well known that the Horde's druids bewitched their own with slippery tongues and black magic.

“And you are the one they call Justin,” Jamous said. “What of it? You're in the way here.”

“How can I be in the way of my own forest?”

Jamous refused to look at the man. “I am here to save your forest. Markus, mount your horse and muster the men. Make sure everyone has bathed. We may have a long day ahead. Stephen, pull out twenty archers and meet me in the lower camp.”

His men hesitated.

He whirled. “Markus!”

Justin had dismounted. He possessed the audacity to defy Jamous and approach the fire, where he stood now, hood withdrawn to reveal shoulder-length brown hair. He had the face of a warrior gone soft. All had known of his skill as a soldier before his defection from the Guard. But the lines of experience were softened by his brilliant green eyes.

“The Desert Dwellers will destroy you today,” Justin said, reaching a hand out to the fire. He looked over. “If you attack them, they will run over what remains of your army, burn the forest, and slaughter all of my people.”

“
Your
people? The people of this forest are alive
because
of my army,” Jamous said.

“Yes. They have been indebted to you for many years. But today the Horde is too strong and will crush what's left of your army like they crushed this man's hand yesterday.”

He pointed to Stephen, who had taken the sickle.

“You abandoned the army. What would you know of war?” Jamous asked.

“I wage a new kind of war.”

“On whose behalf? The Scabs?”

Justin faced the desert. “How much blood will you spill?”

“As much as Elyon decides.”

Justin looked surprised. “Elyon? And who made the Scabs? I believe Elyon did.”

“Are you saying that Elyon did
not
lead us against the Horde?”

“No. He did. But aren't you really the same as the Horde without the lake? So then if I was to take the water from you and shove you out into the desert, we'd be cutting you to pieces instead of them. Isn't that right?”

“You're saying that I am one of them? Or maybe you're suggesting that
you
are.”

Justin smiled. “What I'm really saying is that the Horde lurks in all of us. The disease that cripples. The rot, if you like. Why not go after the disease?”

“They don't want a cure.” Jamous grabbed the horn on his saddle and swung up without using the stirrup. “The only cure fit for the Horde is the one Elyon has given us. Our swords.”

“If you insist on attacking, maybe you should let me lead your men. We'd have a much better chance of victory.” He winked. “Not that you're bad, not at all. I've been watching you since you came, and you're really very, very good. One of the best. There's always Thomas, of course, but I think you're the best I've seen in some time.”

“And yet you insult me?”

“Not at all. It's just that I am very good myself. I think I could win this war, and I think I could do it without losing a single man.”

Justin had a strange quality about him. He said things that would ordinarily bring out the fight in Jamous, but he said them with such perfect sincerity and in such a noncombative way that Jamous was momentarily tempted to smack him on the back as he would a good friend and say, “You're on, mate.”

“That's the most arrogant thing I've ever heard.”

“So then I take it you're going to battle without me,” Justin said.

Jamous turned his horse. “Markus, now!”

“Then at least agree to this,” Justin said. “If I can rid you of this Horde army on my own, ride with me in a victory march through the Elyon Valley to the east of the village.”

Jamous's men had started to mount, but they stopped. Justin's companions hadn't moved from their horses. Nothing about this wild proposal seemed to surprise them.

Any hint of play had vanished from Justin's eyes. He stared directly at Jamous again, commanding. Demanding.

“Agreed,” Jamous said, interested more in dismissing the man than taking any challenge from him seriously.

Justin held his eyes for a long while. Then, as if time was short, he walked to his horse, threw himself into the saddle, reined it around, and left without so much as a glance.

Jamous turned away. “Stephen, archers. Hurry, before the light is full.”

JUSTIN LED Ronin and Arvyl through the trees at a gallop. They could hardly keep up, and he didn't push his mount as he often would when riding alone. There were others beside Ronin and Arvyl—thousands who would cry out his name in the right circumstances, but his popularity had waned as of late. They were a fickle people, given to the sentiments of the day.

He only hoped that he still had enough. His agreement with Martyn depended at least partially on his ability to deliver a crowd as planned.

Living as an outcast had extracted its price. At times he could hardly weather the pain. It was one thing to enter society as an orphan, as he had; it was another to be openly rejected as he was so often now.

At times he wasn't sure why Elyon didn't take his sword to the lot of them. Their Great Romance was no romance of Elyon at all.

Now their fate was in his hands. If they only knew the truth, they might kill him now, before he had the chance to do what was needed.

“Justin! Wait,” Ronin called from behind.

They'd come to a grove of fruit trees. Justin pulled up. “Breakfast, my friends?”

“Sir, what do you have in mind? You can't take on the whole Horde army single-handedly!”

Still at a trot, Justin slid a pearl-handled sword from its scabbard, leaned far forward, flipped the blade over his head in a movement that approximated a figure eight, and then reined his horse in.

One, two, three large red fruits dropped from the tree. He caught each in turn and hurled one each to Ronin and Arvyl. “Ha!”

He bit deeply into the sweet nectar. Juice ran down his chin and he shoved his sword home into its scabbard. The fruit he would miss.

Ronin grinned and took a bite of his fruit. “Seriously.”

Justin's horse stamped. Slowly the smile faded from his face. He looked off at the forest. “I am serious, Ronin. When I've said that leveling the desert with a single word is a matter of the heart, not the sword, you weren't listening?”

“Of course I was listening. But this isn't a campfire session with a dozen hopeless souls looking for a hero. This is the Horde army.”

“You doubt me?”

“Please, Justin. Sir. After what we have seen?”

“And what have you seen?”

“I have seen you lead a thousand warriors through the Samyrian desert plain with twenty thousand Horde before us and twenty thousand behind. I have seen you take on a hundred of the enemy single-handedly and walk away unscathed. I have heard you speak to the desert and to the trees and I have seen them listen. Why do you question my confidence in you?”

Justin looked into his eyes.

“You are the greatest warrior in all the land,” Ronin continued. “Greater I believe than even Thomas of Hunter. But no man can possibly go against ten thousand warriors alone. I'm not doubting; I'm asking what you really mean by this.”

Justin held him in his gaze, then slowly smiled. “If I ever had a brother, Ronin, I would pray he would be exactly like you.”

It was the highest honor one man could give another. In truth Ronin did doubt Justin, even by asking, but now he was wordless.

Ronin dipped his head. “I am your servant.”

“No, Ronin. You are my apprentice.”

BILLY AND Lucy watched the three warriors from behind their berry bush, barely breathing. In their hands they gripped wooden swords they had carved only yesterday. Lucy's sword wasn't as sharp or as sword-looking as Billy's because she had a hard time carving with her bad hand. It was good enough to wedge the wood against her leg, but otherwise the shriveled lump of flesh was good only for pointing or clubbing Billy over the head when he got too annoying.

It had been Billy's idea to sneak out of the village while it was still dark and join the battle—or at least take a peek.

His friend had tried to convince Billy that it was too dangerous, that nine-year-old children had no business even looking at the evil Horde, much less thinking they could fight them. Lucy hadn't thought they would actually come, but then Billy had awakened her and she'd followed, whispering her objections most of the way.

Now she was staring at the three warriors on their horses, and her heart was hammering loud enough to scare the birds.

“That's . . . that's him!” Billy whispered.

Lucy withdrew into the bush. They would be heard!

Billy looked at her, eyes wide. “That's Justin of Southern!”

Lucy was too terrified to tell him to shut up. Of course it wasn't Justin of Southern. He wasn't dressed like a warrior. She wasn't even sure that Justin even existed. They'd heard all the stories, but that didn't mean anyone lived who could really do all those things.

“I swear it's him!” Billy whispered. “He killed a hundred thousand Scabs with one hand.”

Lucy leaned forward and took another peek. They were like the magical Roshuim of Elyon that her father said would one day strike down the Horde.