Tears of the Sowilo (Scars of Tomorrow Book 3)

By Tom Calen

“When he comes to his enemies,
their houses will tremble.
When he comes to his allies,
they will stand in awe and fear.
And when the Dagaz comes to his people,
his people will weep.”

For more than a century, the fervent believers of the Cohors Ignota sect known as the Sowilo have waited for their savior to arrive. Prophecy promises that the Dagaz’s most dedicated followers will weep when he comes to them. And so they shall.
Crisis now spans the globe.

In Europe, Tilden Garrott, heir to his Family and prized prisoner of the Ignota, struggles with the madness gripping his mind as he manipulates his enemies in an effort to regain the birthright the Council has denied him.

Thousands of miles west, on a tiny island in Lake Erie, Gavin McAvoy, newly-named leader of the resistance, finds himself quite unsuited to the political wrangling required to bring together the mistrusting factions of Ignota and Sowilo. With the arrival of a threat thought dead, the cost of miscalculation is fatal.

Across a different ocean, a leader far more adept at wielding power understands whichever action he takes next, his short list of allies will fade to greater isolation. Caput Xian Hu, and his forced bride Aubrey Garrott, prepare for war with the other Families while facing a deadly challenge from within House Hu.

On the Dead Continent, a land both feared and forgotten, Torrance leads those few brave enough to journey with him into a wild wasteland. He will not accept the destiny forced upon him, but neither will he squander advantage. For the Dead Continent is very much alive. And though it is ruled by warlords and violence, it has an asset the man from the woods cannot forsake.

Ignota and Sowilo, Alliance and Council, all smell the coming of war in the wind. And all now grasp for position and race for resources before the end begins.

Prophecy promises tears. And tears there shall be. Rivers and rivers of tears.

So continues the battle to control tomorrow’s history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Nov 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618684059

Book preview

Also by Tom Calen

THE PANDEMIC SEQUENCE

The Tilian Virus

The Tilian Effect

The Tilian Cure

The Tilian Relapse – forthcoming

SCARS OF TOMORROW

Torrance

The Ignota

Tears of the Sowilo

Book IV – forthcoming

Book V – forthcoming

From the Prophecy of the Sowilo:

"When he comes to his enemies,

their houses will tremble.

When he comes to his allies,

they will stand in awe and fear.

And when the Dagaz comes to his people,

his people will weep."

Chapter One

Tilden Garrott

Cursing under his breath, the heir to the fallen House Garrott tightened the heavy scarf around his neck. The thick leather gloves, and the cold aching fingers inside them, hampered the effort. England in February was far from warm, and the stiff wind blowing from the Atlantic increased the chill. The steady gusting loosened the scarf within seconds of Tilden’s adjustment.

The town of Perranporth, a small resort town on the northern coast of Cornwall, was hushed in the slumber of its residents. With the fabled witching hour already past, even the streetlights of the quiet town seemed sleepy. His contact, which was now twenty minutes late, had chosen both the time and location, atop one of the many cliffs overlooking the sandy beaches below. I don’t like this, Isla Carene said. The breath of the former actress crystalized in the moonlight.

Nor do I, he thought, but chose other words for his reply.

He’ll be here, Tilden answered. Landry has served my Family for thirty years.

Carter Landry was one of the many agents who had proved his loyalty to the Garrotts. Only a select few had been known to anyone other than the Family’s spymaster, Liam Wolford. That Landry had survived the Council’s deceit was not all together surprising. The man was as cunning as Liam.

Landry had been Tilden’s third attempt at locating survivors, and his first success. The Council had been thorough in their execution of known Garrott sympathizers and agents.

Not thorough enough, Tilden added with an inward smile.

But, how many PKs might he bring with him? the woman asked.

In his mind, the heir imagined himself pushing her off the cliff. He could hear the screams as she fell; the thud and crack as her body impacted on the beach.

How simple it would be! And so deserved!

His mouth filled with the sweet salivation of vengeance.

And how long before her men kill you?

Tilden did not jump at the intrusive voice. Over the last few weeks, he had grown accustomed to it. In many ways, the voice had become a comfort. When alone, he even spoke to it aloud. But only when alone! The voice had warned him to be wary of listeners. Tilden had been insulted by the warning. He had argued back; telling the voice he was not a fool and knew when to hold his tongue.

I could say it was an accident.

The voice snickered. They wouldn’t believe you. Not yet. They are still suspicious about Bain.

Sighing, he replied, Then I’ll wait.

Yes. Wait, the voice said and retreated.

He’ll come alone, Tilden said to Isla. Her expression told him she did not suspect the inner dialogue.

Realizing his tone had been harsh, he took her hand and added, Landry is a good man. We can trust him.

Before she could reply, a soft chirp sounded ahead. Hidden in the darkness, the men of Isla’s Ignota cell announced their tardy guest’s arrival.

You’re late, the heir said once the man approached.

Landry’s eyes studied Isla as he said, I’ve been here, Your Grace. I was scouting to see whom you brought with you. Three men, yes? There, Landry pointed to the left, then swept his finger around, and there and there.

He knew he should have corrected Landry’s use of his formal title. But, it had been so long—too long, he added—since anyone had addressed him with the proper respect. The terrorists keeping him captive did not need to hear a reminder that he was still the heir.

A Caput now, the voice returned to correct Tilden’s thinking. Albeit one not recognized by the Council.

Smiling, Tilden said, As sharp as ever, Landry.

The areas the man had indicated did indeed conceal Ignota members.

Thank you, sir. But my eyes are not what they once were. There was a time when I could have spotted three times that number, if necessary.

Tilden understood the message hidden beneath the man’s sincere humility.

Though it wasn’t necessary tonight, Landry, I’m sure you still could, he replied. Tilden fought the urge to find the nine men his agent had brought with him. As much as it turned his stomach, he needed the Ignota if he hoped to remove the Council. For now he must resist the desire for rescue. What news is there? he asked.

Landry’s demeanor relaxed knowing there would be no skirmish that night.

Nothing concrete, sir. Rumors mostly. The Alliance is doing their damned best to control the story. There’ve been riots in some of the larger cities. Los Angeles, Paris, Sydney, even London. After New York, everyone is wondering where the next bombs will fall. Some have even removed their SIDs in protest. The PKs have rounded up those who did it publicly. But, we are hearing of others who have cut the chips out and then disappeared of their own accord.

Tilden hid a grimace. With their broadcasted warning, the resistance had planted the seed of fear in the population. Another Council failure! Two thousand years of strategy was unraveling because of the Ignota and the inept Council. If someone did not correct the current course soon, the people would refuse implantation of the SID upgrade, and the Culling would not occur.

What else?

"There’s been a great deal of chatter among the Ignota about something called the Dagaz. We don’t know if it’s a person or an event, or maybe some kind of weapon. But, the messages we’ve managed to capture say that the Dagaz has come and to be prepared."

Tilden turned to Isla with an inquisitive look.

I don’t know, she answered the unspoken question. From her tone, he was inclined to believe her denial.

Whatever it is, it’s got them buzzing, Landry continued.

Any word about Aubrey? His sister had been in the custody of Caput Yin Xian Hu.

Very little. She’s made one public appearance since the marriage was announced.

Though he hated to think of his sister snared in the Viper’s trap, Aubrey had inherited the larger share of their mother’s cunning, and the Family’s spymaster had taught her well. For now, she must look after herself. Plus, her marriage to Hu might benefit the return of House Garrott to power.

If she gives the Viper a son, Hu can be removed. Perhaps Aubrey herself could sit on the Council as a steward until the child comes of age, the voice intoned. Tilden offered silent agreement.

Any other survivors?

Landry shook his head. No, but there is a growing dissent among the British, and some of the other Euro nations. Some are calling for an investigation into the charges levied against the Garrotts. They’re blaming the current mayhem on the Council, and saying there was stability when the Garrotts shared power.

The people could call for all the investigations they desired. Yet, Tilden knew either the Council would ignore the requests, or it would provide sufficient false evidence to quell the demand. Still, it was pleasing to know his people were starting to question the Council’s actions. Ultimate success was solidifying in his mind. There was still much to do, but using the Ignota and Aubrey and the people, Tilden believed his return was certain.

I assume our people are stoking the fire?

When and where we can, sir. It is still dangerous for anyone to openly support the House. The other Families have each sent forces here to hunt down sympathizers. And they have the drones.

The drones, Tilden thought. His Family’s greatest success now in the hands of the enemy! Whoever was to be the victor in this struggle would be the one controlling the drones. For that, he would need the Ignota.

Is Sheerness still the base of productions? he asked. It was there Isla had revealed her loyalties and rescued him from the Council’s attack. If the drones were his Family’s crown jewel, Sheerness had been the crown itself.

Yes, Landry replied. Production has been accelerated. Moreover, the site is heavily guarded. For every two drones they produce, one is added to the facility’s security.

Can you get us maps? Digitals of troop placements? Isla asked the spy.

Tilden cringed when Landry looked to him for approval before answering. Despite his subversion, Isla must continue to believe she was in charge of their activities and that he was just a willing supporter.

Ms. Carene and her people saved me from the Council, Landry, he told him. Our interests align in this.

He hoped the pronouncement was enough to mollify the woman, as well as assure Landry the future of House Garrott was not in the hands of an Ignota sympathizer.

Landry paused for a brief moment, weighing the meaning of the words. He then replied, It’d take a few days, but yes, I can get what you need.

How many days? the Ignota asked with authority.

Five.

Then we meet here again in five days.

As he watched Landry retreat back into the night, Tilden adjusted his previous calculations. With events unfolding as they were, he might be only months away from restoring what was his by right of birth.

Once the loyal servant of House Garrott was distant, the Ignota members who had remained hidden during the conversation emerged from the shadows.

Even if circumstances had been different, if he wasn’t somewhere between captive and unwilling aide-de-camp, Tilden doubted he’d have ever considered these men friends.

Well, Etienne perhaps, he considered the man of Franco-Arabic descent. After Isla, Etienne Shadid had been the first to show him a friendlier side. He had played innumerable games of chess with the Ignota combie—the muscle of the terrorist cell. In the beginning, Tilden had been forced to throw many of the matches, but Etienne’s skill had improved over the prior weeks.

Across the way, Kieran Doyle, the cell’s lone surviving scout, climbed a short rise to the top of the cliff’s ledge. Unlike the combie, the scout’s features testified to undiluted genetics. Red-haired, blue-eyed, and freckled, Kieran’s Irish heritage was evident to all observers. And if one had any trace of doubt, the man’s thick brogue erased it immediately. The cell’s former leader had killed the Irishman’s counterpart, Lars, in a drunken rage.

The memory of slicing Cleland Bain’s wrists always brought Tilden a rush of ecstatic pleasure. He had stood watching for several minutes as the pool of blood had expanded around the unconscious body. How satisfying it had been to take a life!

The final figure to join the group on the ledge was Marcelo Delgado, a mixed-blood Spaniard, and another of the cell’s combies. Tilden had little liking for the man, who was a steadfast holdout to accepting the Garrott heir into the fugitive company.

Delgado might need to have an "accident" soon, Tilden’s second voice mused. He agreed.

Fecker ‘ad four men hidin’ round the cliff, Kieran pronounced.

Tilden fought a smirk over the scout’s inaccurate count. He would not have been surprised if those four men had let themselves be spotted to hide the locations of the other five.

Well they were smart enough not to make a move on us, Isla spoke with obvious relief.

Because I told them not to.

Was he useful? Etienne asked.

Isla nodded. Let’s get back. I’ll brief everyone there.

For the past two weeks, the cell had taken up residence in a three-story home a few blocks away from the famed cathedral in the city of Truro. Though the gothic-revival cathedral had long since shed its religious meaning, the building’s architecture still drew thousands of tourists each year. His Father had been a lover of architecture, and had brought the Family to see the cathedral when Tilden was still a young boy. The late Kerwen Garrott had played both tour guide and historian, and had explained that the structure was one of three cathedrals in the entire United Kingdom to boast triple spires. It was the tallest spire that Tilden stared at from the third-floor window of the cell’s hideout.

Even if he gets us digitals, Marcelo said from one of the sitting room’s upholstered armchairs, we still don’t have enough men to stage an attack on the facility.

And if they are adding drones to the security team, the longer we wait the more men we’ll need.

Neither the Spaniard nor Etienne’s point could be challenged. Tilden had spent days convincing Isla that Sheerness, and its drones, was a crucial target. She had agreed, believing the implanted idea had been her own, but the group was no closer to forming an actual plan of attack. When the Alliance had moved against Sheerness, they had used the facility’s chief engineer to gain control of the drones and secure their hold from the inside out. That option was not available to a ragtag band of terrorists. Their assault would have to be direct.

Fortunately, the cell had the arms for such a tactic. Tilden had led the cell to an immense cache of weapons and armor his Family had stored away. They simply lacked the men to wield them.

We have to find other Ignota in England, Isla said. Her tone held a familiar frustration.

An’ we ‘ave been, Isla, Kieran replied. But wit’tha network banjaxed, the Ignota’re as scarce as a hen’s teeth.

Another incontrovertible truth. Tilden could provide an answer to the dilemma, but he would wait until he was alone with the cell’s new leader.

Slamming a hard plastic cup down on the wooden coffee table—the sound thudding hollowly—Isla exclaimed, Then we keep looking dammit! The Alliance could not have wiped us all out already. We can’t be the only ones left in this country!

It was the first time any of them had put words to their mutual fear. The Alliance crackdown was nearing the end of its third month, and the media continually reported on the destruction and apprehension of Ignota cells across the world. Some of the reports were surely false, Council propaganda to inspire confidence, but most were probably true. Ordinarily, Tilden would have cheered the news, but he needed the Ignota’s smaller army to capture himself a larger one.

The men kept silent after Isla’s angry outburst. Taking a few deep breathes to steady her ragged nerves, she said, For now we keep looking.

Aye, Kieran answered. As the cell’s last scout, much of the search would fall to him.

Landry mentioned something else, the woman redirected the conversation. "Something about a Dagaz. Anyone familiar with that?"

"Dagaz?" Marcelo repeated, pronouncing the word awkwardly.

Yeah. He said there’s been a lot of chatter about it in the Ignota. Landry didn’t know if it was a person or thing or anything. Just that it’s buzzing around.

It’s a person, the cell’s medic said in monotone.

Colton Sawyer was standing with his shoulder pressed against the far wall. What Tilden had first thought was a reserved personality had turned out to be the blandest individual he had ever met. Sawyer spoke so little that when he did utter a word everyone turned to listen. Within seconds, though, he reminded the room why the man was often silent. The man was as interesting as a limbless mime.

The mime might at least show an expression, Tilden corrected.

How do you know? Isla asked.

"The first cell I was with, back in Ipswich, had a scout who was a Sowilo. He was a good scout, but drove us all crazy with his Sowilo talk. Kept telling us that the Dagaz would come and save us."

Tilden suspected it was the longest anyone had listened to the medic with sustained interest.

Sowilo? the heir asked.

It’s a cult within the Ignota, Etienne said before providing further detail of the fanatical sect. As Tilden listened, he noted the combie had answered him without first seeking approval from Isla.

Interesting, he replied when Etienne’s brief lesson ended. Another wrinkle to explore, the voice decided for him.

"Did this scout say who the Dagaz was?" Isla asked.

If he did, I don’t remember. I tuned him out when he talked.

Kieran covered a laugh with a cough. The irony of Colton Sawyer tuning someone else out was not lost on anyone in the room. Too flavorless to know when he was being mocked, the medic continued speaking.

"I just remember him going on and on about how the Dagaz would come to lead us to victory. They called it a prophecy."

Is some gammy hocus-pocus, is what it is, the Irishman decreed. They’re a buncha muppets off their nut.

Agreed, Isla nodded. But if it’s getting enough attention to have Landry mention it, it could be important. The messages said to be prepared. If something big is in the works, we need to know about it. We barely survived the last surprise.

She was, of course, referring to the Alliance attack on House Garrott, which not even his Family, with its far superior intelligence operation, had managed to forecast.

I’ll add t’me list, the scout said, sarcastic as usual.

Testing his ever-ambiguous position within the cell, Tilden offered, "There is something else to consider from Landry’s report. He said mention of this Dagaz is frequent in the messages he’s intercepted."

Yeah? What of it? Marcelo returned with open contempt.

An accident. And soon, the voice grumbled.

Showing no trace of agitation, the heir pressed on. We’ve been working under the belief that the Ignota network has been gutted near to extinction.

It has, Kieran countered. His tone implied he had taken insult to Tilden’s words.

"Well, if that’s the case, then—

He’s right! Isla broke in. If messages are being intercepted, then there has to be a network to pass messages through.

Tilden had already come to that exact conclusion back in Perranporth. Of course, he had held back the revelation until the appropriate time.

Colt, the cell leader said. Do the Sowilo have their own communication network?

By now, the medic had returned to his previous state of vacuous banality.

Surprised to be addressed again so soon, the man stammered, Uhm…I…I don’t remember him mentioning one.

Thank you, Colton. You can go back to being useless now.

Tilden waited, hoping Isla or one of the others would understand the next obvious step. He didn’t have to wait long.

Til, could you get Landry to give us access? Would he pass a message along? his one-time love inquired.

Raising his brow in feigned reflection, he shrugged his shoulders. Possibly. If I made the request…he might. Keep in mind he has spent his life believing we are the enemy. He may balk at helping the Ignota. Convincing him might be expensive.

We’ve got two billion credits, Kieran prompted them.

Tempted to remind the Irishman where those credits came from, and who led them to their discovery, Tilden bit into the right corner of his cheek. A drop of sweet, metallic tasting blood touched his tongue.

All right, Isla said, we’ll bring it up when we meet with Landry.

The rest of the conversation focused on smaller tasks, the everyday needs of food and other provisions. Tilden ignored the greater part of the discussion since the tasks would fall to others to complete. His journeys outside the home were limited, as the missing heir to House Garrott would be all too recognizable. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the window and the spire in the distance.

He thought of another secret cache of Garrott Industries weaponry hidden in Ireland’s capital city. Beneath the streets of Dublin, his Father had stored a small fleet of HALOs. There were three squadrons of the advanced helicopters in the underground hangar when Tilden learned of its existence a few years ago. The late Caput may have added more in the interim. Either way, there would be at least forty-five military crafts waiting for Carter Landry. The credits used to bribe the Garrott agent would in truth be used to man and transport the HALOs.

Despite the negligible heat flowing through the home’s ventilation, Tilden’s blood warmed with satisfaction as he pictured his force of Ignota and HALOs reclaiming the facility at Sheerness and the indomitable power of the drones. However, even the image of that victory was dwarfed by the pleasure he knew he would feel as he turned his army against the Council itself.

The day passed and night fell over the small English town of Truro. Lights lit the cathedral’s spire from below transforming it into the glowing tip of a sword against the black sky. A humble meal had been prepared and eaten in the first-floor kitchen, the dishwasher humming as it cleansed the plates and glasses.

In the living room off the main entryway, the cell’s two combies reclined in leather chairs as they watched the host of a late-night talk show gush over her celebrity guest. Their shift would last another four hours, and then Kieran and Sawyer would wake to relieve the pair. The purpose of the watch was in part to ensure the captive did not escape, and also to be ready should the cell’s location be compromised.

Two flights up, in one of the three bedrooms off the sitting room, Tilden lied in bed with his arms over the heavy blankets covering his body. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the occasional passing of a podcar on the street below. Though his mind filled with thoughts of vengeance and war, his breathing was calm and even.

He’d been sleeping less and less these days. However, he always felt refreshed when it came time to face a new day, so the lack of sleep did not bother him. It was during the night that the voice inside his head seemed to come alive. Perhaps it was the solitude that spurred the voice to activity. Or perhaps it was a creature of the night. Whichever, Tilden did not question it. In many ways, he looked forward to the night. It was only then when he was free to discuss his plans with an ally.

Fawzan can wait, the voice advised. Hu and Cambrie pose the greater threat.

They’re also the furthest away, he countered in a whisper. Fawzan’s troops are closer.

But the Arab is weaker, slower to act. The Viper is rash and he will move against you in haste. And he has your sister. He will kill her if he is not destroyed first.

No, he’ll keep Aubrey alive as leverage. He’ll use her to broker a truce.

And if you are wrong?

Tilden paused to consider. If I can save her, I will. If not…war requires sacrifice.

What of the other woman in your life? The voice asked in what Tilden knew was a sneer. Will you save her as well?

In the many plans he had formed, most with the assistance of the voice, he had not yet decided what fate Isla would meet once he sat on the Council. Or should meet.

She’s useful to me now.

That is not an answer.

A soft rap on the bedroom door spared Tilden further debate. A thin crack of light from the hall appeared as the door was pushed in.

Til?

He toyed with the idea of pretending sleep, but there was a chance Isla had heard his whisperings.

I’m up, he replied. Pushing himself up against the headboard, Tilden leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. The act served as an invitation, and the cell leader entered the room, closing the door behind her.

Isla wore a thin gray nightgown that fell just short of her knees. The silk fabric across the chest formed to two noticeable peaks where her unprotected nipples stiffened in the evening chill. The sight of her olive skin and black tresses hanging free down the nape of her neck and back behind her shoulders aroused him in an instant. He had not seen her in such a state of exposure since taking her prisoner.

Barefoot yet arching as if she wore heels, she padded over to the bed. Sitting near enough to smell the fresh scent of bathing, Tilden’s manhood throbbed with long-unsatisfied need.

I wanted to thank you for last night, she told him in a husky voice, which was at once both sexual and conspiratorial. He knew the stated pretense was false. The meeting with Landry may be the biggest break we’ve had in a while.

I hope it helps, he offered. How he enjoyed this game of artful double entendre!

It already has. Just knowing there’s communication among the Ignota is a relief. If nothing else, we at least know there are still more of us out there.

Maybe an end to all this madness is in sight.

Maybe. She smiled in a way that said such a possibility seemed foreign.

How are you doing? she asked.

Surprised and suspicious,—Had she heard me talking?—he replied, Me? What do you mean?

The last few weeks have been moving so quickly, we haven’t had much chance to talk. Not since, she paused and cast her eyes down, not since everything with Cleland.

He had wondered how the guilt had been gnawing at her since she had asked him to kill. The shudder of her body when she had said Bain’s name was his answer.

I watched him die until the last drop of blood fell from his arms, the voice laughed. And I liked it.

Lifting her chin with his hand, he said, You…we…have to move past that, Isla. You just said that Landry was our first big break in a long time. Bain would never have reached out to him. You’re doing what he couldn’t do. What he wouldn’t do.

What a leader would do? What Sun Tzu would do? she replied. Well-schooled in the ancient military leader’s teachings, Tilden had often quoted him to the cell leader.

Yes, he told her with certainty.

Do you miss him?

Well, I missed Sun Tzu by about two millennia, he chuckled.

As she laughed in return, Tilden let his hand fall from her chin and placed atop her own.

I mean your Father. Your Family. In all of this, I sometimes forget that you’re mourning everyone you loved.

Though the voice raged that she had dared mention the Caput, the heir said, Not everyone I love is dead.

Their eyes locked as they once had before Hell had been unleashed. Back when a different future had existed for Tilden Garrott, the heir to his House, and Isla Carene, the celebrated actress and star.

The time for words had ended. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. Without hesitation, her mouth parted and invited him in. Though so much had come between them—betrayal, murder, mistrust—his body remembered hers, and hers his. His hands knew where to roam, where to press, to pinch, to linger. The tips of her fingers traced along his neck, caressed the broad stretch of his back.

Both the lamp and their nightclothes were soon off.

The act itself was muted; there were too many ears in the house for anything more passionate. And while he was lost in the pleasure of being inside her, the voice simmered.

One day, I will be thrusting with a knife.

Chapter Two

Sonje Nysgaard

After three days on foot, with a blistering desert sun overhead and the burning grains of sand below which had invaded every crevice of her skin, she was ready to join Match Quentin’s continued chorus of complaints. Reaching the Dead Continent had been easy enough; Brother Trig’s vast network of Sowilo believers had provided a freight ship to cross the Atlantic. A series of bribes had exchanged hands, and before long Sonje and her companions had once again found themselves on dry land.

The Namib Desert, considered the oldest desert in the world[1], and stretching two hundred kilometers in width and ten times as far in length, was an endless sea of sand and dunes. The dunes, when viewed from a height, looked like tan waves frozen in stillness. While the temperatures along the Atlantic coast had been bearable, even pleasant, the heat increased further inland. For someone of Sonje’s Nordic genetics, the oppressive sun burned her skin to a painful redness. Her main concern, though, was for the youngest member of the group.

Marcus Seton, still six months shy of his fourteenth birthday, had surprised them all when he had appeared on the Miami dock demanding to join their transoceanic voyage. How he had managed to follow them unseen for days was a mystery the boy refused to explain. By waiting to reveal himself until the last minute, Marcus had left them few choices.

We can’t send him back on his own, Sonje had argued that morning two weeks ago. Someone needs to bring him back to Pelee.

And while everyone agreed with her sound logic, no one had rushed to volunteer. Their team was small, and most served a crucial need. The weapons master, Kunbo Fofana, was a native of the DC. His experience could not be sacrificed. Nor could Match Quentin—their only tech specialist. Torrance, the alleged Dagaz, was the sole reason for the mission to the DC; it was in his name they hoped to gather an army of Sowilo. Which meant Peter Yan, a Sowilo himself, was needed to ensure Torrance made no missteps.

She had realized the two superfluous members were herself and Milo Chance. While the former Peacekeeper was not a fanatical Sowilo devotee, he had expressed an unwillingness to abandon his inexplicable link to Torrance.

Therefore, it had fallen to her.

I’ll bring him back, she had offered. Having left things with Gavin sour, Sonje was in no rush to return to Pelee.

Silent while others discussed him, something Sonje had hated when she had been his age, Marcus said, If you bring me back, I’ll leave again. Except then I won’t know how to find you. But that won’t stop me from looking.

Sonje had been taken aback not just by the length of his speech—it was the longest she’d heard from him since their paths had crossed months before—but the delivery had also shocked her. There was no petulance in him, no sense of a spoiled child demanding special treatment. What she had heard was a young man, resolute in his convictions, unwavering in his decisions.

Kunbo, the dark-skinned giant, put his massive hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said, Africa is dangerous place, Marcus. Even I fear returning to the land of my ancestors.

A lesser individual might have shied away from the hulking presence of the weapons master and the deep baritone that came from the cavernous depths of his chest. Marcus, however, tilted his head back and met the larger man’s eyes.

I’m going with you, he challenged.

Kid’s made his choice. And we’ve got a ship waiting for us, Torrance had announced as he lifted his gear bag from the dock.

Sonje’s jaw fell. You can’t be serious! You want to bring a teenager to the DC?

The man from the woods had adjusted the pack’s straps before replying. The too-nonchalant delay expressed his disinterest in her condemnation.

I’ve been working with him, Torrance replied. He knows which end of a gun to point. Back in Philly, he took down a couple of HALOs. Which is more than a few of you can claim. Being thirteen doesn’t mean he’s helpless.

Sonje looked to Kunbo. Whatever support he might have lent to her objections had evaporated. The African had been younger than thirteen when he had first used a weapon in defense of his life.

And so, a little over two weeks later, she was walking through a vast desert in Namibia and wondering if Marcus Seton was hydrated. To his credit, the boy showed no signs of weakness as the party moved ever eastward. Indeed, he seemed to be handling the conditions better than anyone else. Save for Kunbo, of course.

She remembered once reading that a body’s preferred climate was established in the first six months of life. Judging by the weapons master’s controlled respiration and minimal perspiration, the claim appeared to be true. With his extensive knowledge of the continent, Kunbo had assumed the lead of their pedestrian caravan, and had set a challenging pace.

Could’ve been driving. Could’ve been in air conditioning, Match complained. But, no! The big guy says we have to walk.

The normally high-spirited operations technician trudged beside Sonje with a fraying strip of gray fabric looped around his brow; its color darker in places where his sweat had pooled. Like the others, a white shirt, khaki shorts, boots that matched the sand, and a heavy pack strapped to his back completed his look of weary traveler. Kunbo called it the desert uniform.

Sonje did not bother admonishing Match’s complaints because she knew it would have little effect, and because she was beginning to share his sentiment. The party would have covered more ground, in greater comfort, if they traveled across the Namib by podcar. However, Kunbo had advised against it. He claimed local tribes would feel more threatened by outsiders in pods than outsiders on foot.

Except three days in, Sonje thought, and we’ve had no sign of any local tribes. She was beginning to fear that too much had changed during Kunbo’s absence from the DC.

You good on water? she asked the tech specialist. She knew the canteen at his hip and the camelback pack were full—they’d only set out a few short hours ago—but the question worked to divert him from voicing further grievance.

Yeah. You need some? Match replied.

Shaking her head, Sonje said, I’m good.

Her sunglasses dipped down her nose when she turned to talk, so she pulled the rag from a pocket in her shorts and wiped the beads of sweat from her face. Sonje flinched as the cloth’s contact reminded her of the sunburned skin. Letting the sting fade, she tucked the rag back away and spat out the few grains of sand it had deposited on her lips.

I used to like the beach, Match smirked at her efforts. Cold drinks with little paper umbrellas in them. Water on your toes. What was I thinking? Sand is evil.

Laughing, she agreed. I don’t know, but one of those umbrella drinks sounds perfect right now.

Such indulgences would have to wait. For now water, and warm water at that, was the sole beverage available to moisten their sun-cracked lips.

We are here, Kunbo’s sonorous voice flowed back to them along the spine of their current dune. The powerful figure halted to allow those behind to reach him.

Sonje scanned the wide flat vista below. Grouped together in sporadic clumps, squat trees—the tallest less than twenty meters high—grew up amid straw-like strands that swayed in the faint wind. The trees were like the ones she had seen in pictures of Africa: tops flat and stretching wide to form a natural umbrella of flora. Shorter bushes, varying in color from dried browns to lusher hues of green, sprouted from the earth like the tufts of a mangy dog’s fur.

Even the dunes bordering the valley’s plain offered new interest to her eyes. Far taller than those they’d already passed, these towering giants were more orange than tan; some closer to shades of red. Already used to the uninterrupted and cheerless beige of the desert, Sonje found the unexpected colors of the valley vibrant.

"Sossuslvei," the weapons master announced.

Match said, Okay, even I’ll admit that’s an inspiring sight.

"What does Sossuslvei mean?" the young Marcus asked.

‘Dead-end marsh’.

Well, that feeling didn’t last long, the op-tech said in a quick return to sarcasm.

The magnificent panorama held too much of Sonje’s breath for her to spare any for a laugh.

We will stop here for the day, Kunbo told them.

Behind her, Torrance, whose typically impassive expression registered some awe at the valley below, questioned the decision.

There’s still half a day’s light left, the blond man said. Like Sonje, he had arrived on the DC with little pigmentation in his skin. Three days had turned his pale features to tender-looking red swellings. She wondered if her own burn looked as painful.

Kunbo did not turn to the question, but he did nod his head as he stared across to the high dunes. The Sesriem Canyon is fifty kilometers to the east. Down that road.

Sonje followed the angle of his pointing finger and was shocked to find what her eyes had missed upon first gazing out over the bright colors of Sossusvlei. Not far in the distance, less than half a kilometer away, was the beginning of a paved road.

On pavement, we could cover half that distance before nightfall, Torrance estimated in support of his argument.

There is no need, Kunbo replied. They have already seen us. When they come, it will be to help us…or to kill us. If they choose the latter, I would prefer not to have wasted energy in an unnecessary hike.

Mention of unseen watchers had Sonje reaching for one of the many knives strapped to her body. Kunbo, the teacher responsible for honing that instinct, gripped her wrist.

Not yet, Dr. Sonje. Not yet. Let us go down.

They cut an angled path down the side of the dune, careful to avoid a rough slide to the valley floor. Only Torrance and the African managed the descent with ample grace.

The sunburned outsider—Sonje still thought of him as an outsider—kept his eyes raised to the surrounding dunes. His discomfort was evident. Torrance may be a skilled warrior, may even have been born to become one, but he was far from familiar territory. In the Namib Desert, there were no buildings or sewer tunnels to attack from, no podcars or HALOs available to engage the enemy. In the Namib, there was only a scorching sun and the gritty sand.

Sonje was breathless by the time she reached the valley’s hard floor. The surface reminded her of the flour-dusted tops of crusty bread loaves. Thin veins and cracks, where rainwater had once fed the parched earth, crisscrossed the dry basin. Eager to drop the weight of her pack, she followed the party to the nearest tree, and slipped the straps from her shoulders. Though the heat was inescapable, the branches’ shade lessened its impact.

How’d you know we were being watched? Milo Chance asked. The former PK had been a last-minute addition to the mission, and Sonje still wasn’t sure why the man had thrown in with them.

Why are any