Elyon (5 page)
“To see you,” she said. Her gaze swept over Silvie, then Johnis. “What . . . happened?”
“You little leech.” Silvie looked like a viper. “You left us for the Horde.”
Darsal caught her breath. “I was captured, Silvie,” she said simply. She was working hard not to stare at Johnis. “What is going on?”
Johnis scowled. His lip curled into a snarl. Shaeda saw albino meat—an enemy that must die.
Darsal took a step back. “I heard you have a Leedhan. An entity. Very self-indulgent term, if you ask me.”
“And why would you care?” Silvie demanded.
Darsal stared Johnis in the face. All he could see was her smooth albino skin covered in white paste, and her rich, dark eyes enhanced by a single scar. She would bleed red.
Johnis didn’t want Darsal dead. Not now. But she hindered the mission.
“I saw Gabil,” Darsal said. “And Elyon.”
Shaeda hissed. Johnis hissed. “You’re lying.”
“I swear on the books,” Darsal said.
The books. He wondered if Cassak had located the others yet. Odd that Darsal would make such a vow now.
Johnis scowled. “You betrayed us.”
“Johnis . . . trust me.”
He recoiled. “Why would we listen to a treacherous Shataiki-lover like you?”
“Because you
forgave
me! Don’t you remember, Johnis? You saved me.”
Footsteps echoed in the hall, cutting her short. She glanced over her shoulder. “Remember, Johnis. Elyon—it’s all about Elyon.”
He bristled at the name.
Angry shouts and a skirmish in the hall echoed through the door. They all jumped. Johnis and Silvie drew their blades. Darsal hid behind the door.
The knob turned. Men with tan robes and drawn, crimson-stained swords poured into the room, aiming straight for Johnis. He heard Darsal drop one, unconscious, behind him. Silvie’s knife pinned the next assailant to the wall. A second flashed out. Johnis swung his own blade. Metal grated against metal.
His attacker sliced into his shoulder. Johnis blocked the next blow and slashed a diagonal arc with enough force to sever the man’s torso.
Another was on him. Johnis almost lost his balance but used the momentum to spin sideways and catch the man between the ribs.
Darsal had found someone’s knife and drew an opponent out into the hall. Johnis heard a yelp and a crash and nothing more.
A blow from behind knocked him flat. He rolled. The assailant struck him in the head. He saw a flashing light and tried not to pass out. Thrust with his sword. It clattered across the hard floor. Johnis kicked.
His arms were pinned. A knee drove between his shoulder blades. Johnis wrestled loose.
Shaeda!
He tried to invoke her power.
Silvie shouted. Someone struck her, and she fell. Silence. Hellish silence. Where had the Leedhan gone . . . ?
Johnis swept his attacker’s feet from under him and slashed down with his sword. An intruder dove into the hall with an unconscious Silvie over his shoulder. More shouting.
What should he do?
The priest. It had to be the priest. Johnis grabbed an iron poker and rammed it between the bars on the window and the wood surrounding. He ripped away the barrier and jumped through the window. Ran around the side of the building and darted down an alleyway. They wouldn’t risk taking Silvie down the main road. He wouldn’t bother trying to catch up and overpower that many men.
Instead he raced for the temple.
Shaeda had not given him her strength. As they ran closer, her thoughts grew erratic, senses heightened. She was . . . nervous? Invisible talons drove into him. Raked over his body. Johnis bit his lip so he wouldn’t cry out.
Just as before, his loyalty, his love for Silvie, overpowered Shaeda’s stranglehold. Her grip slipped. He pressed on.
Johnis caught up to the Throaters and raced up the temple steps to meet them at the top. He drew his sword, but suddenly Shaeda overwhelmed him, forced his knees to buckle.
No! They have Silvie! I must save her from the priest!
Shaeda growled in his head. The Throaters came at him. Johnis struggled, but the Leedhan was too strong. Everything grew hazy and purple, then faded . . .
M
y general and my priest,” Qurong mocked. “What’s a ruler to do when he grants his priest authority over his general, only to have the priest prove less competent than the general?” The supreme commander had spent the better part of an hour upbraiding both Marak and Sucrow, and Marak was more than ready to move on.
“My lord—” Marak began, even though at the moment Qurong was raging against Sucrow.
His leader continued his rant. “No! You saw an opportunity to show off, and you failed miserably, Priest! Now, give me one reason I shouldn’t just execute the both of you and start over with this newcomer who claims he can do both your jobs!”
“Respectfully, my lord, he cannot,” Marak interjected.
Qurong swerved and demanded a report. Marak told him everything—beginning with the arrival of the mysterious couple, Josef and Arya, and ending with his reasons for refusing to turn over the amulet and the prisoners.
“A Leedhan.” Qurong bristled.
“Yes, my lord,” Sucrow answered. “The boy’s account fits the legends.”
The supreme commander glared at Marak. “Where is the amulet the priest wished in his possession?”
Tread lightly
, Jordan would have told him.
Don’t be hasty, brother. Don’t accept power when you don’t trust the source.
“It is in safe keeping, my lord, secured along with the two prisoners.”
“And so you’ve defied my orders to report to the priest?” Qurong demanded. “Have you gone the way of the rebels?”
“No, my lord. I have not. And I—”
“And the wench Sucrow wanted is now dead?”
Marak tensed.
This pleased the priest. Sucrow was smirking at him, staff in hand. Marak felt light-headed and angry. Jordan’s chiding voice echoed in his mind.
Marak cleared his throat. “My lord,” he spoke in a very low voice. “Those albinos were executed days ago.”
“You finally proved man enough to do it, then,” Qurong sneered. He glanced at the slave near his general, saw the little pendant she was wearing, and scowled.
Jordan would tell him not to go through with this.
Don’t accept evil to further good
, he would say.
Why not?
Marak, you bullheaded idiot. What good comes of wiping out an entire race of people?
Marak was barely listening to Qurong and Sucrow, even as Sucrow went on about the Leedhan’s capabilities. He should be paying attention, but he couldn’t with this strange feeling nagging at him.
He threw the priest a glare. Sucrow seemed uninterested. No, he was . . . manipulating them?
“My lord,” Marak interrupted, “If this expedition mounts and proves successful, all of the albinos, including Thomas of Hunter, will be dead in a matter of days. And I prefer to conduct my own interrogations since the priest’s serpent warriors seem to have a fascination with cutting out prisoners’ tongues before they’ve a chance to talk.”
Qurong threw the priest a dirty look. “Is that so?”
“A rare occurrence, my lord,” the priest assured, his staff turning in his hand. “It’s the mongrel he last gave me he’s so irritable about. But she was worth nothing.”
Marak’s attention snapped back. His hand curled around his hilt.
“Now, on to this albino and Shataiki business,” Qurong growled. “Speak, General. Don’t allow a priest to outdo you.”
Marak remained unwilling to give his superior the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Oh,” Qurong taunted. “The general doesn’t like my assessment.” He chuckled. “Of course, if that whelp succeeds, he’ll have made fools of you both. You are supposed to be my best. Frankly, I’m disappointed.”
“He found a harach, my lord,” Sucrow interjected. “He has no idea what to do with it on his own.”
“So you are holding out on me,” Marak growled.
“Maybe you aren’t as perceptive as you used to be, General,” Sucrow sneered. “Your vision seems blurry these days. Losing your edge, perhaps? Your captain certainly thinks so.”
Cassak
.
Marak knew better, though. Or did he? What was Sucrow up to? His eyes narrowed. He forced a direct gaze, sizing up the man with the staff. Sucrow had never, to his knowledge, performed any sorcery on him.
But this strange sense of unease . . . Was Sucrow threatening or taunting him?
Finally Marak answered, choosing to pretend nothing was suspicious. “Keep it up, Priest.”
He could have sworn Sucrow blinked.
Unaccustomed to being suspected so early, aren’t you, Priest?
The priest broke eye contact. The constricted, numbing sensation left. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” Marak’s hand remained on his sword.
“Stand down, General,” Qurong warned. “Priest, speak.”
A dark look crossed the priest’s face. What was he plotting now? Would Sucrow have Cassak killed just to demoralize Marak?
Cold fingers slid up his back. It would work, too.
“I fail to see where the medallion comes in.” Qurong glared. “Get to the point.”
“The point, my lord,” Sucrow replied, “is that while little is known of these things, the legends themselves exist.”
Marak narrowed his eyes. He had no desire to run all over the desert chasing a legend. But he’d given Josef and Arya his word. And they were convinced they could finish off the Circle in three days. Sucrow wanted in, and that was all the convincing Marak needed.
He would do whatever it took to get Qurong off his back and put the priest in his place. Most curious was that not even Qurong had heard of the Leedhan.
Qurong spoke, his eyes wide with conspiracy, as if some ancient favor had come to him from the sky. “So there really is an amulet that controls these . . . things.”
Sucrow handed Qurong his book. “The kind of tree that produced the wood it’s made from supposedly no longer exists. He showed us the harach earlier, and I thought, perhaps if it does exist, we can be rid of the vermin more quickly.” The priest sneered. “Be rid of our general’s hesitation.”
Marak white-knuckled his belt, fighting the urge to bash in the priest’s head. “Why involve a human?” he asked.
Sucrow laughed hard and loud. “We are catalysts. We live in two worlds, Marak. Haven’t you realized that?”
Marak didn’t comment.
“An expedition may well be worthwhile, to rid ourselves of them once and for all. It is quite simple. We gain control of this Shataiki amulet guardian, invoke a ceremony on Ba’al Bek, and unleash the Shataiki on the albinos.”
Qurong was so lost in thought he didn’t seem to hear them anymore. He turned to go. “I will do this: you will both go, with equal authority and equal standing. You will mount this expedition, and—provided you don’t kill each other—both return with the Shataiki on a leash and a solution for your stupidity with the rebels. If either of those directives fail, I will hold you both responsible. You have two days. Am I clear?”
“My lord—” Sucrow started.
“Begone.”
MARAK HAD BARELY LEFT THE PALACE BEFORE CASSAK CAME galloping back up the road for him, Marak’s mount in tow. He swung up, knife in hand. His face was flushed, eyes wide, pupils tiny.
“There’s been a breach, General,” Cassak announced. “The whole building’s coming—”
“Who is it?” Marak snapped, suddenly frustrated. Sucrow snickered from behind. A chill swept over him. Marak checked his pocket for the amulet as he raced back with Cassak.
“Don’t know yet, sir. No insignias. We’re assuming Eram.”
Eram. Cassak had no business making assumptions.
Marak grumbled. “Who’s on the roof?”
“Six archers. My men are gone; Reyan’s are divided. We don’t know how they breached the blockade.”
Bloody Eram. He never should have trusted that half-breed Horde trickster and his bunch of ex–Forest Guard in the first place.
He and Cassak reached the hall, where men were beating each other down with swords.
“They’re ransacking everything,” a fighter said.
“Take a hostage,” Marak growled. He swung off his horse and rushed into the hall. Ran an invader through and rolled him over. Cassak was right—no identifying insignia. But why would Eram go through the trouble to mask his men’s identity?
Unless it wasn’t Eram after all . . .
The general whipped around and let fly one of his knives into someone’s temple. He cut down a third.
Someone was going to pay for this.
S
triking the cold, hard floor, Johnis woke. He heard Silvie yelp and tried to sit up.
“
Let me go!” she demanded.
Shaeda was quiet, too quiet. Everything was foggy, dreamlike. Another kind of darkness lingered here.
The Throaters dragged Johnis to his knees and pushed him forward onto his palms. The bag was ripped from his head, yanking strands of hair with it.
Johnis squinted in the dim candlelight. He’d needed the images that Shaeda’s gift of foresight could offer. Why had she allowed the Throaters to take him? But that was it, wasn’t it? To prove he needed her, not the other way around. He had to find a way to keep her power but get her claws out of him.
“Bloody priest,” Silvie spat. She was on his left. Her face was tense, lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. A deep, fresh gash oozed blood just over her brow. A red trickle made its way down the side of her pallid cheek and off her jaw to her shoulder and the ground.
Her knuckles were raw. Her limbs pulled as tightly against her restraints as she could manage. Even on all fours, her snakelike eyes had fixed on someone in front of her and refused to be distracted.
The door locked behind them. Johnis raised his head to see the object of Silvie’s killing gaze: a skinny, black-hooded Scab with white skin flaking to the point of disfigurement, dripping in gaudy jewelry. His hawkish expression leered at them.
Sucrow.
This time he did not need Shaeda’s influence. Nor did he want it.