Elyon

by Ted Dekker

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 . . .

  four

  My 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.

  five

  Striking 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.

  Johnis rose to his knees and rolled his shoulders back. His muscles tightened. The invisible claws tore at his back, but he fought through the pain. Shaeda’s talons and Sucrow’s magic pulled him in opposite directions.

  A small metallic sound rang from behind and to the left of Johnis. An apprentice had a silver knife at Silvie’s throat. The only change in her expression was that she looked much angrier.

  Sucrow wanted to play with them. Pungent incense wafted from a bowl on the far side of the room, next to what looked like another shrine and hundreds of feathered serpents that represented Teeleh. Just off center was Sucrow’s altar, much like the one they recently encountered in the Black Forest. Narrow grooves were carved out of the rim to catch blood and guide it into a small silver tray below.

  Johnis tried not to shudder as Shaeda’s fear and hatred of the Shataiki overtook him. A purple-and-blue haze fell on him. He could feel every ounce of her disgust at the winged-serpent image. At the Dark Priest.

  “What do you want, Priest?”

  “Respect,” the priest said. “Your loyalty.”

  Johnis growled. “I give respect where it is due, Priest.”

  A fist struck him from behind. Johnis buckled under the blow and saw yellow and blue flashes of light. He righted himself and shook it off.

  Shaeda’s thoughts turned dark, knocking the wind out of him. She was strangling him. Shaeda, he managed. You’re killing me . . .

  She loosed her grip a little, still tense. Her talons still cut into him, so great was her hatred of all things Teeleh.

  Release me! he protested.

  The talons dug harder, pinching him. “Put aside these thoughts of freedom. Freedom for you shall come with death.”

  Sucrow laughed. “Still struggling with glorious delusions, Chosen One?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Does Sucrow know? How?”

  The priest forced Johnis’s head sideways and traced his crescent-shaped birthmark—the one behind his ear—with his fingernails. Chuckled.

  “Oh yes, Witch spoke of you, before Ciphus killed him,” Sucrow taunted. “And then I killed Ciphus. And now, you, Chosen One.”

  Sorcerors, to the last of them. Johnis’s skin crawled under the touch. He fought the impulse to recoil out of sheer revulsion. In the end pride quelled his horror.

  “Drop dead,” Silvie snapped.

  “Arya,” Johnis scolded, refusing to confirm what Sucrow already gathered.

  “Pity that wench who bore you had to die.”

  Johnis ground his teeth. Sucrow chuckled, still stroking along Johnis’s neck, sending the tingling down his arms and legs. He scrutinized his prey. Reached for the ring on Johnis’s hand. His mother’s ring.<
br />
  Johnis curled his hand into a fist. The Dark Priest sneered. He pressed into Johnis’s skin, digging at his flesh until he made a ragged cut. Johnis winced.

  “You’ve caused me enough trouble.” Sucrow grabbed Johnis by the hair and jerked his head up. “I want to make something perfectly clear so that you understand your place. Agreeable, don’t you think?”

  A Throater shoved Silvie to her feet, knife still at her throat, and forced her to the edge of the altar. Her movements were stiff, as if under some spell. She was made to climb on top and lie down on her back.

  He chained her to the wood.

  Silvie craned her neck and shot Johnis a desperate look. “Jo . . . sef . . .”

  She had almost used his real name.

  Blood pounded in his temple; his hate rose. He channeled both into a rage and lunged against his shackles. Surely Shaeda would give him strength. Strength to tear off these shackles and destroy the priest who dared touch Silvie.

  “She stays with me!”

  Nothing. He was helpless.

  Shaeda.

  Sucrow cackled. “You understand, then. Insurance.”

  MARAK WAS COVERED IN BLOOD. HE FOUGHT HIS WAY DOWN the hall toward Josef and Arya’s room in time to see Darsal knife-fighting with an enemy. She sliced into his upper arm and ducked low to keep from tripping. Why didn’t she kill the man?

  “Darsal!”

  Another intruder. Marak fought him off, took a graze to the ear. He heard a crash and Darsal’s yelp cut short. Marak whirled and saw her motionless on the floor.

  His heart lurched.

  Marak was on the man before he knew what he was doing. Her opponent slammed into the wall. Marak’s sword fell toward him. Their blades clanged together. Marak blocked a blow. Feinted and sliced a diagonal arc.

  The intruder blocked with such force it rattled Marak’s arms. Marak dodged another and slashed against the man’s abdomen, disarmed him, then slashed off his head.

  Marak burst into the room that served Josef and Arya and spun around in time to block an attack. He pivoted sideways, unwilling to be trapped by a wall.

  A hard hit slammed him to his knees. Blood oozed from his shoulder. Marak blocked again. The sword rose up. Fell.