The Horseman – Award-winning lead novel of the Lands of the Morning series

Prologue:

Tarsus, Mediterranean Coast, Turkey

 

“NO!” SHE SCREAMED WITH A HOARSE VOICE, terror turning into fury, “Nooo, you’re not going to have him again! No, not again! No, I won’t let you!” However, even as those words were leaving her throat, she knew the odds favored him being torn to bits by his very own people. Pro-pelled by urgent despair, she pushed her way among the knots of swarthy men and women and tore in the direction of the tall man dressed in white, who stood on a platform surrounded by a fist-shaking, screaming mob. His blondish-brown wavy hair glistened under the sun and his squared wide shoulders, straight back and strong, calm voice spoke of proud defiance.

Her heart ached at the sight of him, for he was the blood in her veins, the flesh upon her bone, and if he would end up martyred by those he had fought so hard to lead to a better tomorrow, she would rather follow him to hell and beyond, and then once again mourn his loss…. Thousands of years ago, the people had been just as bloodthirsty as they were today, and readily falling under Wolf’s spell, they had betrayed White Roebuck. Trapping him like a common beast, they had dragged his bleeding body over sharp-edged stones and thorns.

White Roebuck, who had given them nothing but love and care, who had communicated with animals, flowers, known every star on the sky, thrived on song and dance, and yet been brave enough to rise against terrible odds and fight… the huge rabble led by his own beloved brother, against him.

“Allah-u Ekber! Allah-u Ekber!”

She whirled, looking up toward the direction of the sun. Holy Mary, Mother of God! Could it be? Was it really the Muezzin reciting from the minaret? Did he truly have the audacity to stand high up, and summon the devout to the mosque, to praise God? These very same, Godforsaken men who were trying to murder her husband?

“Allah-u Ekber! Lailahe-il-Al-lah!” the Muezzin confirmed her sus-picion, ululating as he cited the Arabic words equivalent to,” Allah is the Highest; I am a witness that Allah is One; Mohammed is His Prophet. Come to prayer, He will give you comfort….”

As she laughed at the irony, her reason returned and she hurled her-self at the bearded man who blocked her way and was waving her blue scarf in the air. Caught off guard by her violent outburst, he had to re-treat. But others appeared and tried to hold her arms down. Fury heightening her strength, she twisted, turned, kicked, ducked, and man-aged to slip away. The ominous-looking Kurdish rebels from the truck, shouldered the cheering crowd, overwhelmed her husband’s bodyguards, and closed in on him. “You servant of the Allahless Americans!

How dare you come here and poison these innocents with lies?” one of them shouted at her husband, “Traitors like you besmear our Holy Koran’s honor, use our wives, sisters and daughters as fodder for the whorehouses, and lam-baste our traditions and families!” The lone shout metamorphosed into a chorus,

“Death to the man who’s defiled our Prophet! Death to the Two-faced Servant of the Americans!” She was a petite but agile woman, which gave her an edge among the clumsily fermenting crowd as she pushed and zigzagged her way toward her husband. She reached the bottom of the speaker’s podium just as his fist crashed upon someone’s head.

Suddenly their dog Attila darted ahead of her, jumped up and tore at the throat of a huge man at-tacking him from his back. Her heart chimed with relief. Then he was overcome by at least six men who grasped at him simultaneously, sunk under their combined weight and she lost sight of him. An inhuman cry rose from her throat and she tried to plunge for-ward but this time her progress was blocked by a bearded, black skull capped man. He took hold of her blue scarf, pulled it down and freed her hair. Its platinum blondness was unmistakable under the blazing sun.

His hoarse voice rose triumphantly, “Whhoaaa! Here’s the Ameri-can whore!” Somewhere in the distance, Attila was barking violently. Then his bark turned into a long howl, descending to a painful whimper. She stumbled, lost her footing, pitched face forward and hit the rocky ground. Get up! her mind urged, this is not a nightmare, it’s reality! Get up and fight back. She pushed herself up to a kneeling position, struggling to find her balance and to rise on her feet. The bearded man caught up with her, shadowing her horizon. His leer exposing tobacco-stained teeth, he grasped her shoulders and pressed her down. She felt the razor sharp stones cutting into her kneecaps as fiery pain surged toward her eyes.

“Let go of her!” a familiar, deep, male voice commanded, “Let go of her you misbegotten son of a swine!”

Abruptly the bearded man was lifted by a pair of strong arms and hurled away from her. She looked up. Ali’s wiry, dark form emerged in front of her, grasped her by the armpits and helped her stand on shaky legs. As her gaze met his, she sighed with joyous relief. She was not surprised at his appearance. All along, she had expected it, hoped for it. Her husband had come to his domain to campaign on his behalf. They were comrades-in-ideals, side by side they warred to emancipate their people from the outdated cultural and moral standards that were stran-gling their free spirits…

Dimly she heard Ali shout more orders. Instinctively leaning against him, she welcomed his comforting solidity. In black trousers, white shirt open to his waist — obviously all its buttons were ripped off in the heat of fight — he was tanned like a gypsy, and his dark copper coloring set off his green eyes with a feverish sparkle.

“Ayla-aaaa! I’m here, Ayla! Come to me!” The reality of the world around her, its crowds, noises and their im-plication came back into focus: her husband was kneeling under the shade of a large tree, next to Attila’s motionless body. He was bleeding profusely from the cuts on his face, neck, right shoulder and both arms. His torn white shirt was splashed crimson with the other injuries it bare-ly covered.

As she began approaching him, she had to recall the many times she had seen him mangled like this, his blood a willing sacrifice for the betterment of the others. Grimly, she thought, yes, once every few generations, there comes a “horseman,” a visionary martyr who gives himself up willingly so that his people can climb onto the next step on the evolutionary ladder. Suddenly, she felt displaced in time. As in a trance, she turned around. She blinked her eyes, fighting to gather her wits. The vision faded, revealing a tall, shoulder-length black haired handsome young man in a flowing white robe.

His expression intense, his arm outstretched, he was pointing his gun — a huge semiau-tomatic — straight at her husband’s head — with not the smallest ob-stacle in between to perchance divert his steady aim.

Following her stricken gaze, Ali saw him too. His eyes widening, he shouted, “Son, don’t!”

“Stop interfering, Father! Get back, it’s got to be done!”

“No, I won’t allow you, this is murder!” Ali shouted again, leaping forward like a panther. However, before he could complete his leap, the shot cracked with a golden yellow flare….