Elyon

by Ted Dekker

  The scout didn’t answer. He kept looking at Darsal. Staring. What was this scout looking at Darsal for?

  “You have a problem, soldier?” Marak growled. He resisted the urge to jump between Darsal and the stupid scout and slice his head off.

  The scout backed up. “No sir.”

  “Then answer the question.” From what Marak had already gleaned from his scouts and an irritating message from Cassak, Josef wanted Sucrow’s assistance—which meant Marak needed information. There was no way he was letting the priest race off with Marak’s prisoners, much less in secrecy, with delusions of glory and self-aggrandizement in his head.

  “Well, sir, it’s just that no one’s really sure what we saw.”

  Marak threw Darsal an over-the-shoulder glance.

  “Were they furry?” Darsal interrupted, startling both Marak and the scout. She appeared beside him, so close he was drowning in her scent. A flash of heat shot up his arm where hers brushed his. “Black fur, leathery wings, red eyes. Do you remember that?”

  “Albino,” Marak warned, snapping his head around. But that was his mistake. Their eyes met . . .

  He broke the gaze first.

  Never again.

  “Bring some water.” Marak kept his voice even. Tried to calm it just a little.

  She raised a brow. “It’s . . . water you want?”

  What business did she have bringing up the red lakes with Cassak’s scout in the room? He answered slowly. “Not that water.”

  Darsal left without answering. Marak finished business with the scout and dismissed him. For the next few minutes he was alone. “Jordan,” he muttered. “What I wouldn’t give to fight this out with you right now.”

  “Marak.” Darsal’s voice startled him. He turned, and she offered him a bottle of water and a small scroll with Qurong’s seal on it. “This just came.”

  “Read it.” He drank greedily as she opened the message and scanned it.

  “It’s a summons to the palace. Qurong wants to know what happened out there.”

  “He should ask his bloody priest. My hands are tied.”

  “So get them untied.”

  Marak eyed Darsal as she took a swig of water.

  “I’m just saying,” she explained, “in less than a week, Sucrow started what you’ve spent a year and a half preventing.” She read on, her voice suddenly tense. “It’s about the expedition.”

  Marak didn’t answer.

  “I’m not Jordan, but I’ll fight it out with you.”

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  Darsal raised her gaze to him. Sighed. “Follow your heart, Marak.”

  His eyes narrowed. Now, that was a strange thing to say. “My heart?”

  “That’s what Thomas always said. Elyon speaks through the heart. Love.” She touched his chest.

  Marak frowned. Bit his tongue. Would his heart have killed his family or saved them? His heart was a black-riddled coward.

  “Elyon’s who got us into this mess.”

  A short commotion caught his attention. The pair listened, both reaching for blades on instinct, even though Darsal didn’t have one. He then realized she had reached for one of his.

  “Must be Cassak, finally,” Marak growled.

  “Try making an ally rather than an enemy of him,” Darsal said. Marak eyed her. “Johnis, I mean.”

  Great. Now Darsal was playing games too.

  “Why? Planning on drowning them as well?”

  “I might be.”

  “I think not. You’ll wait in the hall.”

  SUCROW SAT IN THE SHADOWS, MASKED BY CURLING SMOKE. Incense filled his nostrils. He knelt down on a silk cushion before the winged-serpent image of Teeleh and prayed for the success of the coming expedition, that their destruction of the albinos would find favor with him and be a fragrant offering to the Great One.

  At last he lifted his forehead from the ground and sat straight on his knees, gazing up at the icon.

  “My lord,” one of his servants spoke from behind. Sucrow scowled. “Qurong sends for you and the general.”

  He paused. “Very well. Be gone.”

  Footsteps carried the informer away. Sucrow turned back to Teeleh and repeated his petition. Breathing deeply, he entered his trance and embraced the vision that came to him. He stood before the altar and drank in the depths of what he knew to be his master’s lair. As the room chilled, a low growl and acidic breath came over his shoulder. Sucrow didn’t turn. A taloned claw traced his throat, cold and hard. Sinewy fingers touched his skin.

  His master. The Great One. Teeleh.

  “I do not care to be petitioned so that my servants might complain of their own failures, priest,” his master warned. “And now this is what you will do: bring me the blood of the one long ago chosen, and ensure the medallion falls into your hands. I will not tolerate the vampiress any longer. The Leedhan must face penalty for her insolence.”

  Sucrow lifted his face, further exposing his throat to his master. “Lord?”

  “Do not allow them to cross the river.”

  Confusion overtook him. But before he could ask, the chill seeped from the room, along with the presence.

  “My lord . . . Warryn has returned.”

  Warryn, the foolish chieftain who had embarrassed him. A pebble in the shoe to be dealt with.

  “Bring him in.”

  Warryn soon stood before Sucrow, who looked his wayward chieftain over, scrutinizing him. The chief serpent warrior had been tainted. Penalties were required. “An eye for an eye,” wasn’t that how the saying went? Sucrow would give Warryn’s position to another, but he would also take Warryn’s eye. A more formidable ally with a sense of duty and honor. If Marak could not be persuaded . . . his captain likely could.

  The thought of an entire army of serpent warriors, all led by a chieftain and general who served the Great One with faithfulness . . .

  “My lord . . .”

  “Summon the officers,” Sucrow ordered. “And you, Warryn, will at last be humiliated before your favorite captain.” He sneered.

  Warryn remained stoic. He bowed and left to retrieve the officers.

  Sucrow looked through his library, seeking his book of incantations. Relighting the incense, he spoke a prayer to his master and bowed prostrate before Teeleh’s image six times.

  What Teeleh’s intentions were, he didn’t know. But that was not his place. Marak had the amulet, the young chosen one, and his arrogance. Soon all would be Sucrow’s. Soon. Josef wouldn’t even know what to do with such power.

  “If Marak cannot be bought or intimidated, another must take his place,” he said to himself.

  Sucrow took a bird from its cage and put the tiny creature on the altar. Using a sharp blade with a heavily jeweled handle, he pierced the bird in its heart. Blood seeped out and around the small fowl, forming a pool on the altar. Sucrow slid the knife down the bird’s chest, exposing its twitching organs. He withdrew a vial and mixed its contents into the bird’s blood, mingling with the entrails, and read from the book the proper spell.

  “Who shall succeed you, most foolish of generals, so lofty, so proud? From such great heights you have fallen, O infidel!”

  Fog and haze slithered over the room like so many snakes. He breathed deep the pungent aroma and shut his eyes a moment . . . then opened them. Sucrow lifted his staff over the concoction and stirred the empty air until a greenish-red light appeared.

  He used a bone to mix the blood and entrails, careful not to let the substance touch his skin. Sucrow’s mantra continued. Teeleh’s eyes formed in the shadows, glaring at him. He dipped his head.

  “Tell me, my seeing eye, my great wonder from the sky, who shall succeed our general who must die?”

  The eyes swelled, growing together into a single, enormous orb that opened into a reddish mirror, a pool’s reflection in midair. Soon a face appeared, one in desert tans and browns who stood at his general’s side.

  “Ah, Captain, so you are the
next in line.” Sucrow chuckled, watching in the mirror as Cassak led the prisoners to their captor.

  He stirred the entrails again.

  A stream of greenish-yellow light drifted from the end of his staff. It formed a spiral, coming ever closer to the captain’s image.

  The light snaked around and grew brighter. It burst into a thousand stars, blinding him for a moment. Then a glittering blue star appeared in his palm, resting on a short cord.

  Of course, the good captain would never willingly fall in league with his general’s enemy. But Sucrow had already compromised him once during the ordeal regarding Jordan and Rona. Still, he could not afford for anything to go wrong.

  Sucrow raised his staff and spun it, reciting another incantation, ignoring the pain that always came with transformation. His body screamed as it twisted, bent, and stretched into the form he desired.

  He took a deep breath and waited. It was finished. He walked to the ornate mirror, framed by wooden snakes, and looked into the glass. A young scout greeted his reflection. Good.

  He changed his clothes and stuffed them in a bag over his shoulder. His staff became a sword. This would not take long. He would have plenty of time to change back before the meeting with Qurong and Marak.

  One last look in the mirror. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him—much less Cassak.

  two

  The march back into Middle was quiet. No fanfare, no fuss—the way Cassak preferred it. He barked at the gatekeeper, who let him through, then took his prisoners down the main road, past vendors and merchants, toward the officers’ hall where Marak had barricaded himself. The lake came up on their left, and the palace was ahead on the right.

  He mopped sweat, morst, and grime from his forehead and silently maligned the priest, his Throaters, the rebels, and finally Marak for the indecision that had forced his hand, for being so bullheaded with all of this.

  The entire mess was simple, but Sucrow, Marak, Qurong, and Eram seemed bent on complicating things. Hang them all. It was only midmorning, and he’d already ridden all over Middle and a good portion of desert.

  “Captain, a word,” Josef said.

  “What is it, runt?”

  Josef kept his eyes up the road. The young man was strange, his skin shimmery white against his black horse, and his gray-white eyes tinted with that strange purple hue. “I know how those three albinos got in and out of the attic in the palace. Interested?”

  Cassak frowned. “How is that?”

  “That’s for me to know.” Josef gave a wicked grin. Now his eyes almost glowed. His skin was nigh translucent. Unnerving. “You’ve heard of albino magic, haven’t you?”

  Cassak considered this. He wasn’t sure what he thought about the albino sorcery, but this nobody had the attentions of the general, the priest, and now Qurong himself. He waited.

  “They have books in which they’ve written their spells and incantations,” Josef continued. “It’s where things such as the amulet come from.”

  Curious. Marak might find the information useful.

  Cassak’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

  “I have one of their books,” Josef explained. He withdrew a leather book bound with red twine from beneath his tunic and showed him the worn, bloodstained cover. “They were after the rest of them, left inside the palace. Without them they cannot complete a ritual that they must—within the next week.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “I was slave to them for a time. Did you search the attic?”

  “Of course.”

  “Search it again. Look everywhere, inside everything. Bring them to me. Then you will see.”

  Of course he would. Marak would be irritated if the priest found them first. In fact, the priest was likely the reason the books were missing. But he didn’t want this youth knowing his interest.

  Cassak pushed away from Josef. “I have things to do.”

  “Just go look, Captain.”

  The captain mulled it over. Finally, “If you’re lying, I’m telling Marak to slit your throat.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “We will see.”

  Cassak rode ahead. Idly he scratched at a spot on his arm. The sunlight grew hazy and strange, making it difficult to see. He shielded his eyes and pressed on. Soon footsteps drew his attention. He squinted to see, one hand on his sword.

  A young scout approached and dropped to his knee. Cassak stopped his horse and nodded. Relaxed.

  Something sweet wafted in the air. For some reason Cassak felt disembodied, dizzy. He shook off the numbing sensation. His eyes fixed on those of the scout. Curious, this was.

  His eyes narrowed. The scout rose, offering a small blue star. Cassak inspected it. “What is this?”

  “A gift,” the scout replied. “From my son.”

  Cassak continued to stare at the little star. His skin prickled.

  He should send the scout away, tell him to take his silly trinket and leave. But as he watched, the star shifted, turning into the eye of a serpent before melting into his palm and becoming part of his skin. Then it disappeared.

  He rubbed his palm, unnerved and riveted by the sight.

  “What does it do?” Cassak’s own voice sounded distant, constricted. He looked again at his palm. Cold to the touch.

  The scout’s lip curled into a strange smile. Cassak found it difficult to breathe and more difficult to break eye contact with this scout, whom he suddenly realized he didn’t recognize.

  “Allows your eyes to see.”

  Cassak shook his head, trying to clear it.

  When he looked up, the scout was gone.

  What in the world just happened?

  They were coming up on the officers’ hall, surrounded by fifty men, windows sealed with iron bars. No one could see in or even get close enough to try. Cassak caught himself staring at his hand.

  Josef was watching him.

  “What?” Cassak barked.

  “Just wondering who that was.”

  “A scout.”

  “Well, yes, but could it have—”

  “I’ve had enough of your mouth.” They approached the guard. “In.”

  CASSAK’S WARRIORS PRODDED JOHNIS AND SILVIE THROUGH the halls and into a dark war room where Marak stood waiting. The haze intensified. A salty, copper taste flooded Johnis’s mouth. He needed to further the mission. Further their revenge.

  With the end of the Circle came the end of the Horde.

  With the conquer of the Horde came the end of Teeleh. The end of Teeleh and the beginning of something new.

  “Kneel.” A rough hand shoved Johnis to his knees. Silvie thumped to the ground next to him. Cassak brushed past him and gave Marak the amulet.

  The general turned it over in his hand. Studied the small thing that had caused so much trouble. Looked perturbed.

  “You two have caused me a lot of grief,” he said.

  “It’s not my fault the rebels attacked.”

  “It’s your fault the priest went on this cursed fool’s hunt.”

  Johnis bristled. Shaeda didn’t like this. Neither did he.

  With Shaeda’s heightened senses, he became aware of every-thing: The long, oval table surrounded by chairs. Pillar candles casting eerie shadows. Torches on six-foot stands, unlit. The place made him think of a Shataiki lair, made him edgy. Or was that Shaeda?

  He could set the place ablaze, storm into the thrall, and demand Sucrow comply. He could end this now. He could . . .

  His eyes fixed on the amulet. Shaeda’s focus soaked into his flesh, rushing over his body like a waterfall, a broken dam spilling into the ocean and sweeping him away in the riptide.

  Marak held the medallion. He hinders the mission.

  No. Offer a truce first. Waste not, want not. Shaeda couldn’t argue with that.

  Johnis looked Marak straight in the eye. The man found honesty impressive. So Johnis would give him impressive. They had no time to waste with all this.

 
“I’m the reason they were there, then. Drawing attention to your men.”

  “Josef,” Silvie whispered.

  His mind shifted. Silvie was the key to subverting Shaeda, to harnessing the Leedhan’s power on his own. And he was almost positive he knew how.

  Marak studied him. He dragged a chair with his foot and shoved it in front of Johnis. “Sit. Your girl can take the other.”

  There were only two chairs.

  Johnis scowled. He helped Silvie stand, then let her have the chair. A second one was dragged from the table, and only then did he sit.

  “Why is Sucrow interested in this medallion?”

  Johnis laughed. A husky laugh that came from Shaeda. “General, that amulet is the key to your trouble. Think of it.”

  Marak eyed him. For a moment his eyes went to his captain. Then back to Johnis. He didn’t look convinced. “This amulet.”

  Shaeda took over. Johnis could feel her magic course through him. Her eyes, it was all about her eyes . . .

  “Yes. That amulet. Come on, Marak. Surely a general knows appearances are deceptive.”

  Marak’s expression became unreadable. What was she doing to the general?

  “Press the matter.”

  “Release us. Make alliance with myself and Arya. Once the priest has outworn his uses, we’ll be rid of him.”

  Marak’s gray eyes searched both of them. “And why should I be interested in an alliance?”

  “Because you can do it my way, in the time frame Qurong wants,” he said. Shaeda said. Was there a difference anymore?

  Silvie touched his arm. Shaeda bristled.

  “You already made your bed,” Marak reminded.

  “Warryn and his men were uninvited guests. Sucrow turned me down, and I came alone. The Throaters decided to tag along anyway.”

  “I’m not interested. You change loyalties too quickly.”

  For some reason that stung. He shoved it aside. “Come now, General, we both know that isn’t true. You don’t like the priest, and you won’t let him have the credit for getting rid of the albinos, either.”

  Marak fell quiet.

  Alliance or death. “Which will it be, General?”

  Shaeda chuckled in Johnis’s head. Her power of influence had no limitation, save that of a human conductor.