The Warrior's Seal (The Tox Files): A Tox Files Novella Read online

  © 2016 by Ronie Kendig

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-2948-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design Author represented by the Steve Laube Agency

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Epilogue

  Excerpt of Conspiracy of Silence

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Prologue

  — Byzantine Empire—1230 AD —

  Ride. Ride at all costs. Let not blade nor foe prevent success. Let not death stop you, lest all humanity pay for your failure.

  The ominous words of the Grand Master tore at the courage of Thefarie of Tveria as painfully as the sharp winter wind. Bent toward his purpose, he raced his destrier down the Silk Road with eleven mighty men.

  Fires roared and smoke choked the knights as they sped after Orxan the Turk, who had devastated village after village with the sickness he’d unleashed. Thousands had succumbed, and rotting corpses littered their path.

  Stopping only to water their horses, they flew through day and night. Wind and rain. They would put a stop to this devastation. Thefarie yearned to relieve his agony, his unending penance of protecting the innocent.

  He could sense the weight of darkness. Even the heavens seemed to acknowledge it, the sun blotting out as they rose up a knoll.

  “Whoa!” Thefarie drew back on the leather reins and guided his destrier in a circle, pulling up to the edge of the rocky incline.

  In the distance, a small mountain struggled to exert its presence against a range that spanned the horizon. Flames flickered and danced, sacrificially offering the village at the mountain’s base. Though a half league separated them, Thefarie studied the wood barrier, hastily constructed to contain the spread of the disease.

  “The fires,” Giraude Roussel said, his deep voice booming. Angry.

  The French knight rarely spoke, so his words forced Thefarie to look to the fires. Wood stacked—no, not wood. His stomach roiled—bodies! Stacked as high as his destrier’s flanks.

  “He is here,” Thefarie said. Orxan was still reaping destruction and death. Still pouring blood into the earth.

  Thefarie lifted his helm over the chain coif he wore, the stifling steel concealing his identity and protecting him from fatal blows. He jammed his heels into his destrier’s side, and the war-horse launched over the incline. Behind him came the responsive thunder of the knights who accompanied him.

  Pounding across the rocky terrain, he hoisted his shield into one hand, his sword into the other. His destrier leapt into the air, effortlessly sailing over the barrier. Thefarie pushed his horse through the scorched town and galloped up the stone steps of a portico jutting out of the mountain’s face. A small courtyard spread out beneath the portico. On the ground next to a strangely calm pool lay a man, unmoving.

  Thefarie slid off his mount, eyeing the opening cut into the earth behind the portico. He checked the fallen villager—dead—then approached the yawning chasm. Wariness crowded him. It seemed even torchlight dreaded what lurked beyond the mouth of the mountain. Tightening his grip on his hilt, he tucked his chin. “Orxan, you are called out in the name of the one true God!”

  Fighters lunged from the cave and lashed at him with scimitars and sword. In a fluid move, Thefarie sidestepped, deflecting their efforts with ease, and the other knights arced in to silence the enemy. Ten strides carried Thefarie into the darkness. Behind him came the familiar shink of chain mail slinking through the stone passage.

  Scant light crawled over the roughhewn rock. Crude steps led down into the heart of the mountain. He moved toward the light below that grew brighter until he and his brother-knights stepped into a cavernous chamber. A waterfall rushed down the rock wall, smoothing the stone to a slick surface. Several shapes shifted and coalesced from behind the curtain of water.

  “Please,” a man called as he dragged an injured man into the open.

  A boy of ten or twelve slunk along the edges of the cavern, his dirty hands gripping the strap of a satchel that stretched across his chest and knocked against his knee.

  The man reached toward the older man on the ground. “He is hurt.”

  Both wore local attire, but the older man was heavily bundled. Was the cold affecting his bones? The temperature did not affect the natives as harshly as it had Thefarie’s men. Odd to find a native in relative good health so thickly dressed.

  “They came in,” the man said, motioning out of the mountain. “They burned and killed. My son—let him go. Please.”

  Giraude grabbed the boy by the collar and pitched him through the knights, who ferreted him through their number to the safety of the passage that led out of the mountain.

  The man gave a strangled cry of relief then motioned with both hands to the one on the ground. “They burned him. I don’t know what to do. We need a healer.”

  The sickly man held his side. Blood squeezed between his fingers. His face was pocked and marred. Ameus de Aldigeriis moved forward and knelt to examine him.

  The talkative man threw a furtive glance at the passage, and the pieces came together. Thefarie swept forward, his sword arcing as it sliced through the first man then stopped at the soft flesh beneath the supposedly injured man’s chin.

  “My lord?” Ameus asked. Then a quick intake of breath. “Those aren’t burns. He’s infected.”

  Wide brown eyes shone with fear, then glinted in defiance.

  Thefarie slid the tip of his sword up, forcing the man to stretch his neck to avoid being pierced. “Where’s the mace?”

  Orxan chuckled and grinned with bloody teeth. He coughed, then pushed up and sneered. “I will kill you, Thefarie of Tveria, or this plague will. You will die at my hand!”

  “The mace!” Thefarie’s voice bounced back at him with a snap of finality. He signaled his brother-knights to search the cavern.

  Orxan’s laughter became a choking, seizing cough. But something ricocheted through Thefarie’s mind. A memory. A fragment. His gaze slid to the Turk’s feet. The sandals.

  “The boy!” Thefarie threw himself back toward the passage.

  From behind came the unmistakable sound of Ameus’s blade freeing Orxan’s head from his body, sending a chill not related to the icy weather after Thefarie as he sprinted up th
e passage. He used the jagged walls to propel himself faster and tore around the corner. Straight ahead, the boy’s shadowed form broke out of the mountain.

  “Stop!” Thefarie shouted as he vaulted the last ten steps and threw himself at the boy.

  A startled cry snapped the night. Thefarie’s mail scraped the stone steps as they slid to a stop. He flipped the boy onto his back. Grabbed the strap of the satchel and used his dagger to free it.

  A blade glinted from the side.

  Thefarie jerked up an arm and blocked the boy from driving a knife into his neck. Hand clamped around the boy’s wrist, Thefarie felt a surge of the old anger, the old nature seizing his mind. Drive it through his heart; he does not deserve mercy.

  “My lord, are you well?” Giraude’s shout carried from the passage.

  The query stifled Thefarie’s swift anger, and he slammed the boy’s hand against the steps, sending the knife spinning across the stone. With a huff, he pushed to his feet. “Secure him.”

  A form pushed closer, the white tunic and red cross a glaring reminder of all Thefarie fought for in the name of the Lord. Giraude glanced down at the brown bag in Thefarie’s hands. “Is that it?”

  Swallowing hard, Thefarie opened the bag and reached in.

  “Nay! Touch it not!” Giraude urged. “The plague!”

  Inside lay the Mace of Subjugation. A strange spiraling heat wafted across Thefarie. He hesitated, remembering the caution and orders on how to wrap it. “Giraude, your mantle.”

  His brother-knight stripped off his bloodied tunic and handed it over, pulling a clean one from his pack.

  With care, Thefarie wrapped the mace in the cloth and returned it to the satchel.

  Giraude stepped back. “Hurry, Thefarie. You must . . . you must finish this.”

  With a nod, Thefarie strode to his destrier. He surged westward. The Lord went before him and prepared the way—another horse to carry him through yet one more day until he reached the cobbled road into Antiochia.

  The gates to the Orthodox church swung open. Thefarie guided his mount inside, the hooves clapping loudly in the predawn hour. A blur of wool and holiness met him. Thefarie dismounted, went to a knee, and placed a hand to his chest. “Father—”

  “We have been expecting you. Hurry.”

  Thefarie stared. How could they have been expecting him? There would have been no messenger, no—

  “God knows!” The priest turned toward a door, opened by another priest, and vanished into the darkness. “Hurry. Bring it.”

  Surprise held Thefarie at his mount. He sensed no darkness, no deception. His gaze searched the shadows and alcoves. Convinced all was well, he freed the satchel.

  A scream shot up behind him. “Saracens!”

  In a fluid move, Thefarie freed his sword and spun around.

  A glimmer of black slid toward him. “Surrender it!”

  “You hold no authority here,” Thefarie said, his voice echoing as the wave of black slowed. “Return to the pit you climbed from!”

  The Saracen sneered. Lunged. Thefarie lifted his sword up and over, blocking at his shoulder. A spark hissed as he hauled his blade against his attacker’s. He drew it up. Swung in an arc. Aimed for the neck.

  A clang reverberated through the steel. A younger attacker had come from the left. Thefarie sidestepped and whipped around, now fighting two opponents, both with faces etched in fury. He’d stolen their power, destroyed their plans.

  “I will gut you!” The younger’s blade glinted as it rose then drove downward.

  Thefarie blocked with his own, the vibrations numbing his gloved hands. He maintained his grip and slid sideways, avoiding a strike by the other attacker. He could count on no help—save from God Himself, should He choose to intervene. Priests did not war and had fled into the safety of the church. The vermin had chosen their timing for the attack well.

  He used his left arm to thrust the sword in yet another block. At the same time, he freed the dagger from his belt. Flicked it into a throat. With a gargling gasp, the younger attacker tumbled to the cobbled stones.

  Arms aching, back sore from the two-day ride, Thefarie held his own. He placed both hands on the hilt and focused on the primary attacker. “Have you more than words to attack with, Ashmedai?”

  Quick and fierce, Ashmedai lunged. Steel seared the air, slicing straight toward the strap of the satchel.

  Thefarie felt the fire of steel rip through his arm. “Augh!” He shuffled back, gathering himself. Shutting off the pain. Ignoring the blood rushing down his arm. He clenched his jaw.

  Ashmedai laughed. “Enjoying yourself?”

  Thefarie hefted his sword as he walked a wide circle around the Saracen then threw himself at the man. Drove his blade forward.

  Ashmedai, quicker than a spark and lighter than air, whirled away, closer to the lip of the well in the center of the courtyard. He wagged his eyebrows, laughing. “Not so fast, eh?”

  Circling again, Thefarie measured the distance. Measured his breath. Measured the seconds. Hilt held firmly, he never took his eyes from the man. “You should have stayed in your den, Ashmedai.”

  “To what end? I would have missed all this dancing,” Ashmedai taunted, clearly believing himself to have the upper hand. “I’ve wounded a knight. And soon, very soon”—glee sparked in his dark eyes—“I will rid this world and the heavens of one.”

  Thefarie lunged. Ashmedai thrust himself backward. His heels met stone—his eyes went wide.

  Thefarie saw the pale shock rip through him. The terror. The realization of his mistake. Arm aching, knees weak from the blood loss, Thefarie seized the victory. He lifted his sword and sent it hilt-over-blade into the chest of Ashmedai. The Saracen flipped backward over the low stone wall. And dropped.

  Silence gaped for a few seconds. Then the heavy splash of a body hitting the bottom of the mostly empty well.

  “Thefarie!”

  Wobbling, the world canting, he dragged himself around. Saw the priest at the door. He stumbled toward him, legs feeling like anvils as he struggled onward. Through the door, he was enveloped in black. He focused on the cool stone against his palm, guiding him into the catacombs. He had not imagined there to be such depths beneath the Syriac Orthodox church. The wall curved to the right, and light blossomed over the pale stone.

  “Hurry!” The priest he’d seen before rushed toward him. “It must be sealed and sent far away.” He motioned to an elaborate box made of a rich wood.

  Thefarie strode toward what was much more than a simple box. “The cradle.” He reached into the satchel.

  The priest caught his arm. “Is it covered?”

  Thefarie gave a nod.

  Relief washed over the father’s weathered features. “Good.”

  Thefarie hoisted the mace from the bag. Felt the raw power thrumming through it. He let a breath through his cracked lips as the priest opened the cradle. Two supports waited. Thefarie lowered the mace into the box, allowing the tunic to fall away and the wood handle to rest against the wood supports.

  The priest stepped in and quickly closed the box, a puzzle of wood slides and latches, keys and locks. He lifted a candle and dribbled the hot wax around the edges, then attempted to close the lid.

  It would not surrender. Thefarie frowned.

  The priest grunted, but the lid would not move.

  Thefarie stepped in, too long a witness to the destruction of that weapon that dated back to Moses and Joshua. Unconcerned by the blood covering his hands, he planted both palms on the cradle and pushed down.

  Crack! Plock! Resistance gave way. The cradle locked.

  The priest gasped. Stepped back, his hands held above the cradle and his eyes wide. “What . . . what was that?”

  Thefarie shook his head. “I care not. Only that this is done.” He held his arm, the wound pulsing with fire. “It must never see the light of day again.”

  1

  — Abuja, Nigeria — “Operation Flush—”

  “Don’t.
” Staff Sergeant Cole “Tox” Russell kept his eyes closed while answering the “mouth” of his Operational Detachment Alpha team. Moods were foul and tempers worse after sitting like rhinos in mud in Nigeria. They’d spent the last month here, training locals in stronger combat tactics against Boko Haram. But tomorrow they would head home.

  Sergeant Barclay “Cell” Purcell never gave it a rest. Even when it might save his life. Tox braced for the inevitable bad joke about the infamous covert mission known as Operation Flush. It’d been a strategic effort to rout high-ranking members of the terrorist group, hitting soft targets in Nigeria. Though a handful of masterminds had been rounded up, the fallout was ugly. Retaliation swift and fierce.

  “They had to know that would go down the drain.”

  Groans rolled through the dark room, the other members of his ODA team feeling the pain of the lame pun.

  But the real pain was being here in the first place, pitched into the heart of a dark country. His men were farther away from their families. Specialist Tane Maangi probably felt it worst. Tox cracked an eyelid in Maangi’s direction and caught the pale blue hue of a laptop screen. Soft mumbling told him the Maori was still Skyping with his girlfriend.

  Turning onto his side did nothing to block the guilt from Tox’s mind. The men were his responsibility, but when they had family and kids, there was more to consider.

  On one hand, having a girl back home was good. The soldier’s focus and determination to get back alive were unrivaled. But on the other hand, if something happened to one of his guys, it meant Tox had failed. Not just one person but a whole family. And in that arena, the body count and guilt stacked high.

  He hooked his arm over his head to shield his ears and closed his eyes again. While he loved being a soldier, he hated what it did to people. And by people, he was talking about his men. Not every wound was visible to the naked eye. It was the wounds hidden behind intense eyes or the barrel of an M4A1 that began to fray at morale.

  “But what about—”

  Thump!

  “Hey!” Cell shouted. “Who threw that?”

  “A flashbang would be less painful than listening to you,” Sergeant Ram Khalon muttered from his cot across the bunk room. “Grab some rack time, Cell.”