Ted Dekker - Red

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stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any

other—except for brief quotation in printed reviews, without the

prior permission of the publisher.

Published by WestBow Press, a division of Thomas Nelson,

Inc., PO. Box 141000, Nashville, TN 37214.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dekker, Ted, 1962

Red : the heroic rescue / by Ted R. Dekker.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-8499-1791-3 (HC)

ISBN 1-5955-4000-8 (IE)

I. Title.

PS3554.E3R43 2004

813'.6—dc22 2004004529

Printed in the United States of America

04050607 QW 7654321

For my children.

May they always remember

what lies behind the veil.

Dear Reader,

Thomas Hunter's story begins in Black, Book One of The Circle Trilogy. If you've yet to read

Black, I strongly encourage you to start there. Red is far richer once you've fully experienced

Thomas's initial journey into two realities. There are numerous plot twists that deserve

grounding before you plunge into the pages ahead.

Once you've read Black, you're ready to step into Red. But be fore-warned, nothing will

prepare you—or Thomas—for what awaits him in this second book of the epic trilogy.

Publisher,

WestBow Press

Bangkok

KARA GOT halfway to her door and stopped. She and Thomas were in a large hotel suite with

two bedrooms. Beyond her bedroom door was a short hall that ran to the living room and, in the

other direction, to the adjoining suite. Across that hall—her brother's room, where he lay dead to

this world, dreaming, oblivious to the news she'd just heard from Deputy Secretary Merton

Gains.

The virus had been released exactly as Thomas had predicted just last evening.

Half an hour, Secretary Gains had said. Bring him down in half an hour. If she woke Thomas

now, he'd demand to go down immediately. Every minute of sleep—for that matter every

second—could be the equivalent of hours or days or even weeks in his dream world. A lot could

hap-pen. Answers could come. She should let him sleep.

Then again, Svensson had released the virus. She should wake her brother now.

Right after she used the bathroom.

Kara hurried to the side room, flipped the light switch, turned on the water. Closed the door.

"We've stepped off the cliff and are falling into madness," she said. Then again, perhaps the

fall to madness had started when Thomas had tried to jump off the balcony in Denver. He'd

dragged her to Bangkok, kidnapped Monique de Raison, and survived two separate encounters

with a killer named Carlos, who was undoubtedly still after them. All this because of his dreams

of another reality.

Would Thomas wake with any new information? The power was gone from the colored

forest, he'd said. The colored forest itself was gone, which meant that his power might be gone as

well. If that was the case, Tom's dreams might be useless except as fantasies in which he was

falling in love and learning to do backflips off a pinhead.

The water felt cool and refreshing on her face.

She flung the water from her hands and stepped to the toilet.

THOMAS URGED the sweating black steed into a full gallop through the sandy valley and

up the gentle slope. He shoved his bloody sword into his scabbard, gripped the reins with both

hands, and leaned over the horse's neck. Twenty fighters rode in a long line to his right and left,

slightly behind. They were unquestionably the greatest warriors in all the earth, and they

pounded for the crest directly ahead, one question drumming through each one's mind.

How many?

The Horde's attack had come from the canyon lands, through the Natalga Gap. This was not

so unusual. The Desert Dwellers' armies had attacked from the east a dozen times over the last

fifteen years. What was unusual, however, was the size of the party his men had just cut to

ribbons less than a mile to the south. No more than a hundred.

Too few. Far too few.

The Horde never attacked in small numbers. Where Thomas and his army depended on

superior speed and skill, the Horde had always depended on sheer numbers. They'd developed a

kind of natural balance. One of his men could take out five of the Horde on any bad day, an

advantage mitigated only by the fact that the Horde's army approached five hundred thousand

strong. His own army numbered fewer than thirty thousand including the apprentices. None of

this was lost on the enemy. And yet they'd sent only this small band of hooded warriors up the

Gap to their deaths.

Why?

They rode without a word. Hoofs thundered like war drums, an oddly comforting sound.

Their horses were all stallions. Each fighter was dressed in the same hardened-leather breastplate

with forearm and thigh guards. These left their joints free for the movement required in hand-to-

hand combat. They strapped their knives to calves and whips to hips, and carried their swords on

their horses. These three weapons, a good horse, and a leather bottle full of water were all any of

the Forest Guard required to survive a week and to kill a hundred. And the regular fighting force

wasn't far behind.

Thomas flew over the hill's crest, leaned back, and pulled the stallion to a stamping halt. The

others fell in along the ridge. Still not a word.

What they saw could not easily be put into words.

The sky was turning red, blood red, as it always did over the desert in the afternoons. To their

right stretched the canyon lands, ten square miles of cliffs and boulders that acted as a natural

barrier between the red deserts and the first of seven forests. Thomas's forest. Beyond the

canyon's cliffs, red-tinged sand flowed into an endless sea of desert. This landscape was as

familiar to Thomas as his own forest.

What he saw now was not.

At first glance, even to a trained eye, the subtle movement on the desert floor might have

been mistaken for shimmering heat waves. It was hardly more than a beige discoloration rippling

across the vast section of flat sand that fed into the canyons. But this was nothing so innocuous

as desert heat.

This was the Horde army.

They wore beige hooded tunics to cover their gray scabbed flesh and rode light tan horses

bred to disappear against the sand. Thomas had once ridden past fifty without distinguishing

them from the sandstone.

"How many, Mikil?"

His second in command searched the horizon to the south. He followed her eyes. A dozen

smaller contingents were heading up the Gap, armies of a few hundred each, not so much larger

than the one they'd torn apart thirty minutes ago.

"Hundred thousand," she said. A strip of leather held her dark hair back from a tanned

forehead. A small white scar on her right cheek marred an otherwise smooth, milky complexion.

The cut had been inflicted not by the Horde, but by her own brother, who'd fought her to assert

his strength just a year ago. She'd left him unscathed, underfoot, soundly defeated.

He'd died in a skirmish six months after.

Mikil's green eyes skirted the desert. "This will be a challenge." Thomas grunted at the

understatement. They'd all been hardened by dozens of battles, but never had they faced an army

so large. "The main body is moving south, along the southern cliffs." She was right. This was a

new tactic for the Horde.

"They're trying to engage us in the Natalga Gap while the main force flanks us," Thomas said.

"And they look to succeed," his lieutenant William said. No one disagreed. No one spoke. No

one moved.

Thomas scanned the horizon again and reviewed their bearings. To the west the desert ended

in the same forested valley he'd protected from the Horde threat for the past fifteen years, ever

since the boy had led them to the small paradise in the middle of the desert.

To the north and the south lay six other similar forests, inhabited by roughly a hundred

thousand Forest People.

Thomas and Rachelle had not met their first forest dweller until nearly a full year after

finding the lake. His name was Ciphus of Southern, for he came from the great Southern Forest.

That was the year they gave birth to their first child, a daughter they named Marie. Marie of

Thomas. Those who'd originally come from the colored forest took designation according to

which forests they lived in, thus Ciphus of Southern. The children who were born after the Great

Deception took the names of their fathers. Marie of Thomas.

Three years later, Rachelle and Thomas had a son, Samuel, a strong lad, nearly twelve now.

He was wielding a sword already, and Thomas had to speak loudly to keep him from joining the

battles.

Each forest had its own lake, and Elyon's faithful bathed each day to keep the painful skin

disease from overtaking their bodies. This ritual cleansing was what separated them from the

Scabs.

Each night, after bathing, the Forest People danced and sang in celebration of the Great

Romance, as they called it. And each year the people of all seven forests, roughly a hundred

thousand now, made the pilgrim-age to the largest forest, called the Middle Forest—Thomas's

forest. The annual Gathering was to be held seven days from today. How many Forest People

were now making the exposed trek across the desert, Thomas hated to imagine.

Scabs could become Forest People, of course—a simple bathing in the lake would cleanse

their skin and wash away their disgusting stench. A small number of Scabs had become Forest

People over the years, but it was the unspoken practice of the Forest Guard to discourage Horde

defections.

There simply weren't enough lakes to accommodate all of them.

In fact, Ciphus of Southern, the Council elder, had calculated that the lakes could function

adequately for only three hundred thousand. There simply wasn't enough water for the Horde,

who already numbered well over a million. The lakes were clearly a gift from Elyon to the Forest

People alone.

Discouraging the Horde from bathing was not difficult. The intense pain of moisture on their

diseased flesh was enough to fill the Scabs with a deep revulsion for the lakes, and Qurong, their

leader, had sworn to destroy the waters when he conquered the much-coveted resources of the

forest lands.

The Desert Dwellers had first attacked thirteen years ago, descending on a small forest two

hundred miles to the southwest. Although the clumsy attackers had been beaten back with rocks

and clubs, over a hundred of Elyon's followers, mostly women and children, had been

slaughtered.

Despite his preference for peace, Thomas had determined then that the only way to secure

peace for the Forest People was to establish an army. With the help of Johan, Rachelle's brother,

Thomas went in hunt of metal, drawing upon his recollection of the histories. He needed cop-per

and tin, which when mixed would form bronze, a metal strong enough for swords. They'd built a

furnace and then heated rocks of all varieties until they found the kind that leaked the telltale ore.

As it turned out, the canyon lands were full of ore. He still wasn't sure if the material from which

he'd fashioned the first sword was actually bronze, but it was soft enough to sharpen and hard

enough to cut off a man's head with a single blow.

The Horde came again, this time with a larger force. Armed with swords and knives, Thomas

and a hundred fighters, his first Forest Guard, cut the attacking Desert Dwellers to shreds.

Word of a mighty warrior named Thomas of Hunter spread through-out the desert and forests

alike. For three years after, the Horde braved only the occasional skirmish, always to their own

terrible demise.

But the need to conquer the fertile forest land proved too strong for the swelling Horde. They

brought their first major campaign up the Natalga Gap armed with new weapons, bronze

weapons: long swords and sharp sickles and large balls swinging from chains. Though defeated

then, their strength had continued to grow since.

It was during the Winter Campaign three years ago that Johan went missing. The Forest

People had mourned his loss at the Gathering that year. Some had begged Elyon to remember his

promise to deliver them from the heart of evil, from the Horde's curse, in one stunning blow.

That day would surely come, Thomas believed, because the boy had spoken it before dis-

appearing into the lake.

It would be best for Thomas and his Guard if today was that day.

"They'll be at our catapults along the southern cliffs in three marks on the dial," Mikil said,

referring to the sundials Thomas had introduced to keep time. Then she added, "Three hours."

Thomas faced the desert. The diseased Horde army was pouring into the canyons like

whipped honey. By nightfall the sands would be black with blood. And this time it would be as

much their blood as the Horde's.

An image of Rachelle and young Marie and his son, Samuel, filled his mind. A knot swelled

in his throat. The rest had children too, many children, in part to even odds with the Horde. How

many children in the forests now? Nearly half the population. Fifty thousand.

They had to find a way to beat back this army, if only for the children. Thomas glanced down

the line of his lieutenants, masters in combat, each one. He secretly believed any of them could

capably lead this war, but he never doubted their loyalty to him, the Guard, and the forests. Even

William, who was more than willing to point out Thomas's faults and challenge his judgment,

would give his life. In matters of ultimate loyalty, Thomas had set the standard. He would rather

lose a leg than a single one of them, and they all knew it.

They also knew that, of them all, Thomas was the least likely to lose a leg or any other body

part in any fight. This even though he was forty and many of them in their twenties. What they

knew, they'd learned mostly from him.

Although he'd not once dreamed of the histories for the past fifteen years, he did remember

some things—his last recollection of Bangkok, for example. He remembered falling asleep in a

hotel room after failing to convince key government officials that the Raison Strain was on their

doorstep.

He could also recall bits and pieces of the histories, and he drew on his lingering if fading

knowledge of its wars and technology, an ability that gave him considerable advantage over the

others. For in large part, memory of the histories had been all but wiped out when the black-

winged Shataiki had overtaken the colored forest. Thomas suspected that now only the Roush,

who had disappeared after the Great Deception, truly remembered any of the histories.

Thomas transferred the reins to his left hand and stretched his fingers. "William, you have the

fastest horse. Take the canyon back to the forest and bring the reinforcements at the perimeter

forward."

It would leave the forest exposed, but they had little choice. "Forgive me for pointing out the

obvious," William objected, "but taking them here will end badly."

"The high ground at the Gap favors us," Thomas said. "We hit them there."

"Then you'll engage them before the reinforcements arrive." "We can hold them. We have no

choice."

"We always have a choice," William said. This was how it was with him, always challenging.

Thomas had anticipated his argument and, in this case, agreed.

"Tell Ciphus to prepare the tribe for evacuation to one of the northern villages. He will object

because he isn't used to the prospect of losing a battle. And with the Gathering only a week away,

he will scream sacrilege, so I want you to tell him with Rachelle present. She'll make sure that he

listens."

William faced him. "Me, to the village? Send another runner. I can't miss this battle!"

"You'll be back in time for plenty of battle. I depend on you, William.

Both missions are critical. You have the fastest horse and you're best suited to travel alone."

Although William needed no praise, it shut him up in front of the others.

Thomas faced Suzan, his most trusted scout, a young woman of twenty who could hold her

own against ten untrained men. Her skin was dark, as was the skin of nearly half of the Forest

People. Their varying shades of skin tone also distinguished them from the Horde, who were all

white from the disease.

"Take two of our best scouts and run the southern cliffs. We will join you with the main force

in two hours. I want positions and pace when I arrive. I want to know who leads that army if you

have to go down and rip his hood off yourself. In particular I want to know if it's the druid

Martyn. I want to know when they last fed and when they expect to feed again. Everything,

Suzan. I depend on you."

"Yes sir." She whipped her horse around. "Hiyaaa!" The stallion bolted down the hill with

William in fast pursuit.

Thomas stared out at the Horde. "Well, my friends, we've always known this was coming.

You signed on to fight. It looks like Elyon has brought us our fight."

Someone humphed. All here would die for the forests. Not all would die for Elyon.

"How many men in this theater?" Thomas asked Mikil.

"With the escorts out to bring the other tribes in for the Gathering, only ten thousand, but five

thousand of those are at the forest perimeter," Mikil said. "We have fewer than five thousand to

join a battle at the southern cliffs."

"And how many to intercept these smaller bands of Horde that intend to distract us?"

Mikil shrugged. "Three thousand. A thousand at each pass."

"We'll send a thousand, three hundred for each pass. The rest go with us to the cliffs."

For a moment all sat quietly. What strategy could possibly overturn such impossible odds?

What words of wisdom could even Elyon himself offer in a moment of such gravity?

"We have six hours before the sun sets," Thomas said, pulling his horse around. "Let's ride."

"I'm not sure we will see the sun set," one of them said.

No voice argued.

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1©2004TedDekkerAllrightsreserved.Noportionofthisbookmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans—electronic,mechanical,photocopy,recording,oranyother—exceptforbriefquotationinprintedreviews,withoutthepriorpermissionofthepublisher.PublishedbyWestBowPress,adivisionofThom...

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Ted Dekker - Red

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