Warriors of the One (Wine of the Gods Book 16) Read online

  Warriors of the One

  Pam Uphoff

  Copyright © 2014 Pamela Uphoff

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN

  978-1-939746-01-6

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional.

  Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover credit:

  Design: P. A. McWhorter

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  265 Year of the Prophets

  Rangpur

  Chapter Two

  1 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Paris

  Chapter Three

  2 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Rangpur

  Chapter Four

  2 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Rangpur

  Chapter Five

  3 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Karachi

  Chapter Six

  3 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Ar Riyad

  Chapter Seven

  3 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Makkah

  Chapter Eight

  3 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Makkah

  Other Books by Pam Uphoff

  Chapter One

  265 Year of the Prophets

  Rangpur

  The tower was down, the west wall starting to collapse as the internal timbers burned.

  "Take the wives and children, put them in your bubble." Nicholas swept a look around the fiery scene.

  "One!" Isakson put all his protest into the single word.

  "You will be with them. Do a slow count to ten. Then emerge." The old man's eyes tracked beyond him. "Be sure that Ra'd is inside."

  "Father! You should be the one speaking of going turtle!" The boy—fifteen years old, still growing, not yet a man—had a gun in his hands and enough smoke smudge and dirt on him to show he'd been with the defenders.

  "No. I am old, at the end of my years. You are at the start of yours. My last son. I want you to live." He switched his glare to Isakson. "Now. Hear that? The last defenders have fallen, we are done."

  Isakson nodded. "I hear and Obey, One." He pointed the boy at the low structure, one of the few still looking intact.

  He felt for his bubble. A multidimensional phenomenon. They, the One, could not make them, only use them. A gift from Those Left Behind. There were thirty-three of them still working. Isakson had inherited his from his father. He opened it with a snap.

  Ra'd glared.

  Isakson shook his head. "Your father has one. He'll use it."

  "If he can." There were tears in the boy's eyes. But he stepped in.

  The wives followed him, shepherding the younger children before them, carrying the youngest. They'd drilled often enough. Isakson glanced behind. Nicholas had the handle of his in hand.

  "Go. I will conceal the handle with an illusion."

  Isakson stepped in with the crowded jumble of people. Closed the handle behind him. The bubble pressed down upon them, and he fought off a wave of claustrophobia. The bubble would expand to hold any amount that was crammed into it. And not a centimeter more. He forced his thoughts away from the allure of grabbing the handles and ripping open the unnatural sack. At least there was light. Several woman held electric torches.

  One of the halfbred wives was praying, a hodgepodge of the old Islam and the New Prophet's introductions. The Prophets of the One had taken over the religion, unified it, modernized it . . . Be honest, Isakson. They were not prophets, they were only men, and they used the words of Allah, changed them to their advantage. They do not even believe, those few of them who still live. I don't know if I believe, or not. The powers we feel were never felt before the Prophets came.

  "Isakson!" The boy's voice rang from beyond the women, riding over weeping, prayers and children's distress. "It's been ten seconds. Open the handles."

  He grit his teeth. "Boy, you had better learn some manners."

  Somewhere in the pack a woman's voice rose. "You have no respect for your elders! You have been spoiled, a man of your father's age can't help but be proud to sire a boy child! But you'd think he'd discipline him!" Not Ra'd's mother, but another of Nicholas's wives. She'd attempted to curb the boy, after his mother died. With little success.

  Other voices rose in support. "You tell him, Umaya!" Three new widows, not that anyone had told them yet. But turtling like this, they must know the fort was lost.

  There were only six women total, but their voices clamored like three dozen.

  "Enough. Silence!" Isakson raised his voice. His own wives should know better.

  The overwrought children started crying. His own children should know better. But only three of the children were his. He muttered curses under his breath.

  The boy wiggled through the packed bodies. Tried for dignified, in the crush of bodies. "I beg your pardon. Isakson, who is of the One. Has the time expired? May we sally forth and check the situation?"

  Isakson sighed. Tried to speak gently. "Your father has not opened the sack."

  "No!" That was from Umaya. "He may have retreated, or turtled with the other soldiers."

  Other shrill voices rose.

  "Allah curse all women!" He turned and scowled as the handles pressed up against his body, the bubble pressed against his face, he shuddered and forced control over his body. He would not rip the handles wide open and leap out into the fresh air . . . he would carefully part the handles and stoop to look out.

  At the bronzy inside of another bubble.

  "Oh, no." The boy sounded stunned. "Double bubbled? Father put his over yours? We've been yelling and arguing for . . . minutes. That’s . . . centuries?"

  "No. Don't be silly." Now he ripped the bubble open, spotted the other handles and parted them carefully.

  Fresh spring air. Twilight. No smoke, no scent of burning at all. He ducked and stepped out, the boy on his heels. All the others crowded after them. He opened his mouth to order them back, but stopped at the sight of the intact fort. Clean, new.

  "They've rebuilt. We won." Isakson drew a deep breath. "Praise Allah! Praise the One True God! Praise the Prophets of the One."

  He counted heads. Everyone was out. He closed the handles of his sack and pulled it out of Nicholas'. Hung it on his belt. Closed Nicholas' and hung it next to it. The stucco of the wall was cracked and shattered along a vertical line the height of the handles. That was a powerful illusion! They replastered the wall right over the bubble, never seeing the handles.

  Ra'd was frowning up in the dim light. An electric light on a tall arched pole.

  "They've modernized, as well." Isakson strode out, for the commandant's quarters. Would Nicholas still be here? Or, if the war had moved on, would he have moved with it? He slowed and frowned at the metal grill locked across the door.

  The boy walked up beside him, raising his left hand and summoning light. A gleam of metal to the side. Ra'd shifted and shined his light on it. "The Office and living quarters of the Commander and his wives."

  They stepped back and looked around. The wives were milling around the officer's quarters. Umaya strode across the trimmed grass towards them.

  "They're locked out." She called. "There's a grill over the door . . . like this one."

  Her daughter Qamar had stopped halfway, looking at a pedestal that hadn't been there. . . five minutes ago? Ten? How much time had passed inside of two sacks? Ten thousand to one, inside of one. Surely it didn't multiply . . .

  Ra'd walked over and stood beside his half sister, hand raised to sh
ed light on the pedestal. "The original Fort Rangpur fell in the Year of the Prophets 265. Here, Prophet of the One, Commander Nicholas One held the Armies of Imperial China for three weeks, giving the Army of the One time to assemble in Dacca for the final victory over the Imperialists. May he and all his troops rest in the Peace of the One."

  His voice had gotten thick and clumsy, and now nearly choked altogether. "The first reconstruction was built on the site of the original fort. Dedicated to world peace and unity on the 23rd of Shaban, 1266. It was damaged by fire in 1345, and rebuilt and rededicated, 01 Ramadan 1375."

  Twelve year old Qamar edged closer to her brother. "Daddy's dead, isn't he?"

  Ra'd put a comforting arm around her shoulders, as the truth sank in. "Over a thousand years ago."

  ***

  Ra'd fiddled the lock on the main gates and led the way out of the fort.

  Not without a lot of wistful looks cast back at it.

  "It's our home." Umaya complained, as Isakson headed for the paved road.

  Ra'd eyed the cement walking path. The tarmac parking area. High quality asphalt pavement. He eyed the spread of lights below them. Large, prosperous population. We won. The Islamic Federation. I wonder if they've changed the name? Maybe we're just "the World" now. Maybe we're at peace. He looked down at the rifle he was still carrying. He checked that it was safed, then slung it over his back, hitched the strap over his shoulder. I need to clean it soon.

  Isakson scowled, then looked around and slung his own weapon.

  The two lane road ended at an intersection with a four lane road. Lights bloomed around a curve, a car of some sort? He blinked in the bright lights, unable to see any details. But it purred past, with just a hint of exhaust smell. "Internal combustion engine." He said it loudly enough for the whole group to hear. Tried to be matter of fact, to reassure them. "Good muffler system, too. Just like the movies from before the Days of Death." A nuclear war, Dad said. More than a century before they arrived. Leaving the Islamic Union, Imperial China, and Greater Argentina to squabble over the depopulated ruins of Europe and North America, trying to find the knowledge, the weapons, to defeat the others. "They'd be much more fun to drive than a tank or battle wagon."

  Old Isakson snorted. "Like you've ever done that." He turned and walked in the direction the car had gone.

  Of course not asking for anyone else's opinions. He's one of the most "native" of the sons and grandsons of the Prophets.

  But he was heading for the largest clump of lights, so Ra'd didn't argue.

  Five miles down the road, the women were exhausted, and the air smelled of rain. A handy building with a large porch served to shelter them from the first shower. The kids were beat, curled up on their mother's laps. Thank the One the three youngest were still nursing. The other four were hungry and whined a bit before they drifted off.

  Qamar slept quietly, leaning half against the building and half on her mother Umaya.

  Ra'd strolled out to the pillars that supported the roof. He studied the blocky machines there, with hoses. "A fueling station." He kept his voice down, having heard the old man walking up behind him.

  He turned and they eyed each other.

  Isakson dropped his gaze. "I do not know if we should go to the authorities, or avoid them."

  Ra'd hesitated. "We know from that plaque that the Islamic Federation won. But we have no idea what's happened in the last thousand years, what this place is like."

  "We need food. Soon."

  Ra'd nodded. "And I'll bet the small amount of money we have won't be usable."

  The old man smiled suddenly. "Turn out your pockets. Coins, old coins, have always been valuable."

  Ra'd grinned back. "All we need is a collector."

  "Or a dealer." Isakson looked down the road. "Another five miles. The little ones will be hard put to do it on an empty stomach."

  "You have the bubbles." Ra'd pointed out. "And a grubby old man and a teenage boy will attract less attention than a herd of wailing women and dirty whining children."

  "You are as grubby as I am." The old man grumbled. "We'll bubble the guns as well. Let's get some rest until daybreak."

  Ra'd slid down to sit, digging through his pouch for his cleaning kit.

  Isakson nodded his approval, hesitated, and then handed over his father's bubble. "You will need this."

  Chapter Two

  1 Rajab 1397 Year of the Prophets

  Paris

  Regional Analyst Izzo Withione Al Cairo kept his hand steady on the table. He did not need to chew on a toothpick. He did not.

  "So, I'm going to head for Rangpur myself."

  The Presidential Director leaned back and contemplated the chart. "A teenage boy who fled the testing station when he found out he had the priest gene. And an old man with the priest gene."

  "Since Endi Dewulfe, we've wondered if we could catch any Comet Fall wizards with genetic tests. That's why every minor irregularity is retested for a suite of obscure genes that are not in the insertions. Most Oners run five to ten percent of those genes. The Princess School considers these genes in their selection process. They average three times the usual level.

  "Endi Dewulfe had over ninety-three percent. These two, the old man's sample tested at seventy-three percent, the boy's at eighty-nine percent. If they aren't from Comet Fall . . . well, the second best guess is that they are living off the grid to avoid being tested, and taken for the priesthood." I certainly understand that!

  Urfa nodded. "Well, we'd better find out what is going on. Have a good trip."

  Izzo snorted. "I doubt I'll be able to find them, but apparently just having someone from Paris show up goads the locals into a greater show of industry. They just don't see a couple more unregistered people as a problem, even if this pair are Oners."

  In Dacca, Izzo felt even paler than usual. But his not-quite average height fit right in, for a change. He'd grown up on Homestead, where the natives ran to height. And he now worked surrounded by tall Oners. He opted to take the train for the shorter jaunt to Rangpur. At the police station he was treated as a nuisance-that-must-be-handled-carefully. It was tedious, but he finally escaped with a young patroller to take him to the registry office in the northern part of town. Driving very slowly through packed streets. Between the late flight, the time zones and then the train trip it was midmorning, and he'd somehow missed a night's sleep.

  "Apparently he just walked in and said someone told him he ought to get tested. Some jokers in the waiting room teased him, told him what happened to priests, and speculated that that was why his parents hadn't had him tested. Then when his results came back with the priest gene, and he heard the registrar call the nearest temple, he freaked—entirely understandable—and jumped out a window."

  "You get much of that?"

  "Nah. Well, infants get tested, and fathers would know beforehand that if they were priests, their sons would be priests. I mean, if they had the gene. Obviously, if they were priests, they wouldn't be having any children at all. Right?"

  "Right."

  "So anyway, this morning we tracked him to a homeless shelter in an old Hindu temple. He wasn't there, and the old man he'd been with wasn't registered anywhere. So they pulled him in to be tested, and to check records. I believe your inquiries were passed on, but he hadn't committed any crimes, so we couldn't hold him, beyond a brief jailing as he couldn't pay the fine for failure to register himself. I mean, he's way too old for castration to bring out new powers and talents."

  Izzo nodded. "And it's such small potatoes, the crime rate in a city this size will keep you busy enough . . . If your bureaucracy works as slowly as mine, we may yet find him there."

  The patroller nodded. "Well, it's been a slow few weeks, crime-wise. I mean, why the big fuss over trespassing on a historical site after hours? Who cares? They didn't damage anything, not even the lock. If they'd thought to lock it behind them I doubt anyone would have noticed."

  "No security vids?"

&n
bsp; "Apparently they messed with those, somehow. They did get some pics, a big family group, in traditional Arab garb. But there was a glitch that any defender would jump all over. I wasn't on that call, thank the One. I suspect you can access the vids if you want. What worries us is the weapons, but they're probably non-working replicas, third century stuff."

  "Sound like reenactors."

  It beat watching the police car inch through traffic half composed of suicidally inclined pedestrians and bicycle riders. Izzo tapped in his code and brought up the report. Standard complaint form. Trespassing on a historical site. Seven adult perpetrators. The still picture showed a straggle of women in bundly black clothing, not the fancy period dress he'd expected. Kids in arms or clinging to their parents. And a tall man, a bit stooped. He wore a traditional white kaffiyeh, over the tan and brown uniform of the Islamic League. Big beard, either pale grey or white. The tallest of the kids was facing him in the picture. A teenager, wearing the old traditional arab style head gear over dark pants and white shirt. Carrying a long gun, like the old man.

  "This registrar we're going to see—did he, himself actually see the boy? How about the old man?"

  "He saw the boy briefly, to congratulate him. And with the boy escaping, he went personally around to several shelters to try to find him." The patroller looked curious.

  "It's just that this picture of the trespassers—well, here's an old man and a boy probably in his teens."

  The patroller had sense enough to wait until he had to stop again, before he looked at the picture. "Huh. Well, we're almost there."

  Izzo saved the best still of the two men. Grabbed the whole vid.

  It was enough to raise the hair on his arms. There was nothing wrong with the vid. It quite clearly showed the group popping out of thin air. One at a time, even though crowding each other. All of them stooped over, as if stepping through an undersized gate. One! I do believe we've found some infiltrators. Now what the One do I do?