Thirst of Steel (The Tox Files Book #3) , livre ebook

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2018 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 2018
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.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1475-8
Interlude chapter titles taken from the poem “Goliath of Gath” by Phillis Wheatley.
Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Scripture quotations are from the American Standard Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations are from the Weymouth New Testament.
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 is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Till Conq’ring David O’er the Giant Strode
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Goliath’s Sword Then Laid Its Master Dead
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
And from the Body Hew’d the Ghastly Head
29
30
31
32
33
34
The Blood in Gushing Torrents Drench’d the Plains
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
The Soul Found Passage through the Spouting Veins
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Ronie Kendig
Back Ads
Back Cover
Prologue
— VALLEY OF ELAH—1025 BC —
They were a stench in his nostrils. Bile in his throat. With their strange one God and arrogance, the vermin invaded this land, seized it, ruled it. It was time to make the dogs return to their vomit, to Egypt, where they had eked out an existence they deserved—slaves at the heels of Pharaoh.
“How?” Sibbekai bellowed. “How do we wipe out this blight? We have tried, yet they persist.”
Yishbi grunted. “They are like sores on my feet. Annoying, and just when you think they are gone—they return.”
“Cut off the foot,” Gulat said, his gaze lingering on the flickering campfires of the enemy. Of the king, whose tent and guards seemed entirely too merry. He curled his fingers into a fist.
“Gulat, I have an idea,” said a newcomer.
A commotion arose with the voice, drawing Gulat’s attention to a man half his size who approached with six or seven others. Not dressed as those of Philistia, the man held his head high. Black hair oiled back. Tunic and breeches clean but worn. Shoulders squared. Chin up.
Gulat frowned. “You have the look of the Arabs.”
“And you have the look of an overgrown ox.”
Stunned at the bravado tossed around so casually by this man, Gulat studied him. Considered laughing, then considered crushing his throat. “Why do you tempt death coming to me, Arab?”
“We have a common enemy.”
“I have many.” Gulat narrowed his eyes. “Which would that be?”
“The one splayed before you.”
Gulat shifted his gaze to the Hebrews. Laughter and merriment—the very fact they yet breathed enraged him. “We have been unable to deal with this rot. What makes you think you can?”
“I am Mansur. My tribe, my position are of no importance.”
“We are agreed,” Gulat taunted.
“I bring you a gift.” Mansur faced one of his men, who produced a length of black cloth. The Arab unfurled the cloth and lifted something that glinted in the firelight. With the help of the other man, he aimed it at Gulat.
“This is the Adama Herev.” He waited until Gulat took the blade.
Gulat shifted, feeling the implication tease the edges of his mind. The steel felt . . . significant. “What do you want, Arab?”
“If you please,” Mansur said as he settled his hand beneath the bronze scrollwork. He gripped the hilt, twisted, and slid it. With a crack, it came free. He held the gold scrollwork up to the firelight. “This contains a very thin duct that feeds directly”—he traced the center of the sword—“from the blood groove.”
Gulat imagined—ached—for the blood of the Hebrews to fill that groove.
“You wish to be rid of the Hebrews, yes?” Mansur hefted the piece, then reassembled it with the steel blade. “This will do that. Kill a Hebrew with this sword, and it will enslave their race for all time. They will die in droves. Those who survive will beg at your heels.”
“You cursed the sword?” Yishbi asked, shock in his words.
“Is it so hard to believe?” Mansur asked, challenging Gulat’s brother.
Emboldened, Gulat reached again for the sword. Tested its weight. Held it out. Dawn peeked over the hill, spilling its first glint along the edge of the steel. “Good balance, though the scrollwork is lighter and goes unnoticed.”
“Once it carries the blood of your enemies, it will not be light.”
Gulat admired the steel. The scrollwork. “It would seem that we must slake this sword.” He grinned at his brothers. Then laughed. “Bring my armor! The steel thirsts!”
1
— LONDON, ENGLAND —
The old man trembled as he heard, but bade his followers yoke the horses, and they made all haste to do so. He mounted the chariot, gathered the reins in his hand, and Antenor took his seat beside him; they then drove through the Scaean gates on to the plain. When they reached the ranks of the Trojans and Achaeans, they left the chariot and with measured pace advanced into the space between the hosts.
Beside Joseph Cathey, the air stirred, and he released a long, grieved breath. “Could you not come during a less daunting part?” he muttered as he tugged down his reading glasses and looked up at his visitor. “And has anyone mentioned to you that it is impolite to appear twenty years younger than a man you outnumber by centuries?”
Ti Tzaddik grinned. “You are too easily riled, old friend.”
“ Old? Speak for yourself.” Joseph tapped his book with a glower. “I should make like the son of Atreus: ‘As he spoke he drew his knife across the throats of the victims.’”
“Good thing there are no victims here.”
Joseph grumbled, setting aside his tattered copy of the Iliad . “Since you are not prone to coincidence . . .” He sighed and looked at the old text. Sensed the heaviness of the one who had joined him without so much as a rap at the door or even opening one. “I guess there is work to be done. The final work.”
“Are you ready, Joseph?”
Joseph glanced down at the book. “They ‘were too old to fight, but they were fluent orators.’”
“I’m afraid I am neither an orator nor too old. You must go to the Americans. Our enemies have hastened the search for the sword and set your apprentice on its path.”
“Tzivia?” Joseph blanched. “How have they . . .” He groaned. “Her father.”
“Aye. She must not return it to them, old friend. You know the consequences.”
Joseph grunted, looking at the bookshelf. “That I do. But unless you are aware of things I am not, the final piece remains unaccounted for.”
“That has not changed, but neither will I discount our enemy’s fervency this time. You know what hour draws nigh, and the way the air buzzes . . .” Tzaddik shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have not felt this in a very long time.”
“Nor I.”
Tzaddik stiffened. “We must meet their efforts head on. Go to them. Have them search for the sword.”
“How?” Joseph complained. “They are rigid in their thinking. If there is no crime, if there is no activity—”
“There is. When you go, they will know it.”
With a labored sigh, Joseph watched his friend rise, and with him went his blood pressure. “You’re not going to tell me more than that, are you? Always with the mysteries.”
“I trust you to sort it out. If I show it all to you—”
“Yes, yes.” Joseph waved a hand. “Importance is lost and all that.” He couldn’t believe he was stepping into this again. But what did he expect? “Am I going to survive this one?”
“Were this battle about you, perhaps I would offer assurance, but as the battle is Gulat’s blade and ensuring the assassins do not rise again, I can only give one promise.”
Eyebrows lifted, Joseph looked at him expectantly. “Not especially reassuring, that. Go on.”
“‘Death and destruction shall be theirs . . .’”
Joseph laughed. “Idomeneus.” He nodded. “You chose well, old friend. He is one of the few alive at the end of the story.”
“Why do you think I quoted him?”

— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Deserving to die and wanting to die were two entirely different things. A greater desire—to live!—propelled her down the dirty streets of Moscow. Shoes slapping the pavement, she bolted from an alley into the dark, yawning emptiness of a street. Sprinted toward a narrow passage.
From the shadows, a form coalesced. His shape was distinctive. Though there were no lights, she saw him. Knew him. Remembered his hands around Nadia’s neck.
Tzivia Khalon skidded to a stop, her feet sliding out from under her. She fought for purchase, using a wall to shove away from him.
“ Ostanovis !” he shouted.
Ha. Right. She wasn’t stopping. Not for anyone, especially the guy who’d just murdered the only friend she had in this godforsaken country. Tzivia threw herself around and sighted her exit. Lunged.
Three men manifested from the void. Tall buildings on all sides had her surrounded.
Darting right, she pulled in a hard breath. Walls hemmed in her front. Men behind.
Trapped.
She cursed her carelessness, her desperation, as she scanned for an exit. A