Free A.D. 33 by Ted Dekker Page B

one in each hand, he faced the wind, chest rising and falling with each breath.
    It only took him minutes to reach the first sign of Bedu—their camels, couched in a shallow depression east of the rock formation. Beyond the beasts, black tents bore red-and-yellow Thamud banners that rose lazily on a breeze. Seven tents. The fires were out and unattended. The camp was asleep.
    Crouched low behind the crest of a dune, he scanned the encampment, searching for the largest tent, which would be occupied by Saman and Kahil. There, beyond the seven, were three more tents against the rocks. Wider and taller with five posts.
    Unease crept along his spine. They would have posted guards at the least, but he saw none. For a long time, Judah kept his eyes on the terrain, seeking any sign of defenses. But there were only the couched camels and, beyond, the tents.
    The faintest hint of gray edged into the eastern horizon. Dawn would come within the half hour.
    He decided to skirt the wadi and come upon Saman’s tent from the rock formation behind. Speed was now his closest ally.
    Shoving the dagger into his belt, Judah quickly picked his way around the dune. The night was cold, but his chest and arms were slick with sweat by the time he reached the boulders jutting from the sand.
    Still no sign of any guards.
    The tent might be occupied only by priests or other sheikhs from Saman’s court, less concerned with security than those they served. He rounded the nearest boulder and pulled up sharply.
    There, only five paces away, stood a single guard leaning on the rock with his back to Judah. Before the man could turn—in movement born of a thousand raids—Judah slipped forward, breath drawn.
    Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, Judah reached the Thamud in three long strides. He dropped the sword and, before the blade struck the ground, grabbed the warrior’s hair while bringing his dagger across the man’s throat, intent on severing vocal cords first.
    Judah’s sword landed with a thud.
    Voiceless, the man flailed as Judah dragged him back and down onto the ground, as if bringing a camel to its knees. There, with eyes wide, the man quickly bled out on the sand.
    Judah retrieved the sword he had dropped. Already, his eyes were on the other rocks. Where there was one guard, there would be more.
    He leaped over the slain body and skirted the boulder, edging closer to the tents, expecting another warrior, perhaps two.
    Instead, there were four. All with swords drawn. All facing him across a ten-foot clearing of sand. All confident and poised.
    They’d expected him?
    But they did not know Judah.
    It did not matter if Kahil bared his fangs with weapons drawn—Judah could not be defeated in single combat. But if Kahil made an escape, all would be lost.
    Judah surged forward, then spun, crouching low, swinging his sword waist high. The two closest guards leaped back, stunned by his swift strike. But he’d anticipated the evasion; the reach and speed of his sword was sufficient.
    The tip of his blade sliced cleanly into their guts.
    Using his momentum, Judah veered to his right, spinning to one knee, bringing his sword up for the head of the third guard.
    He felt the jarring force of blade striking bone, but he didn’t wait to see the man fall. He was already turning back toward the fourth guard.
    And yet three more appeared, dropping down from the rocks above. All had found their voices. Their alarm cut through the night air.
    In the space of a single breath, Judah calculated what must now happen. Kahil would flee from the sound of warning. Engaging these warriors would only delay him. He had to reach the tent quickly and cut off Kahil’s escape.
    Judah spun back the way he’d come, leaped over first slain guard, and sprinted into open desert, intent on rounding the rock formations at full speed to reach Kahil’s tent from the side. But where the desert had been vacant only a minute earlier, a long arc of warriors mounted on stallions