by Ted Dekker
Then his attacker fell. Marak rammed his knife into the man’s throat.
Darsal kicked the dead man aside and wiped her stolen sword on his tunic. “My general.”
She extended her hand. He jumped up and knocked the blade from her hand. Instantly Darsal punched him in the chest, then went into a defensive stance.
“Darsal,” he growled. She was alive. He could kiss her. Slap her.
Settle down, idiot. She’s alive. Thank Teeleh, she’s alive.
She straightened. “You’re welcome,” she snapped.
Cassak came into the room with several warriors. He tried not to gawk at the albino with blood all over her. What was he staring at, anyway? He’d seen a female albino before. Especially this one.
“They’re gone,” she said.
Thank Teeleh he still had the medallion. Yes, Cassak had barely stopped a war with the Eramites. But his messages had been growing increasingly inappropriate. His interference had cost Marak his entire family, and Qurong’s trust.
Sucrow’s mockery echoed in his head.
The surge of frustration continued, though Marak wasn’t entirely sure why he was so angry with his captain, his lifelong friend.
Of course, Cassak had stood there and watched the priest torture Jordan and Rona. Cassak had carried out Marak’s order to kill them while Marak watched. Cassak had suggested the use of the Desecration on them. Cassak wanted Darsal to die just as badly as the priest.
Cassak had been in command of this stronghold. Only he had access. Only he could have caused the breach.
Sucrow was right about one thing.
“General, they’re—”
Marak exploded.
“Did the entire watch fall asleep at the same time?” he screamed in Cassak’s face. “Was the only person awake in the whole building an albino slave?”
“We’re looking into—”
“Get the scouts on the move now! And when I find out who was asleep on the watch, they’re going to wish they were dead!”
“Gen—”
“Find them, fool!” Marak struck his captain with the flat side of his blade. Ignoring the stammering compliance, he grabbed Cassak by the scruff. “Now!”
“Marak.” Darsal’s voice cut through the purple haze in his mind.
He drew a hard breath at Darsal’s gentle rebuke and let go. “Was it rebels? Or someone else?” he asked. He turned over a body. Inspected it. Recognized it as one of Eram’s men.
“We’re interrogating a hostage now,” Cassak assured him, slightly stunned at being the brunt of his best friend’s wrath. The thought crossed Marak’s mind that he should apologize. But what could he say to explain the outburst?
Cassak slowly composed himself, finished his thought. “One of our men thinks he saw Warryn. Of course, if it was, the hostage won’t admit it.”
Sucrow.
He slammed his fist against the wall. “Sucrow, you bloody bat lover . . . !” He spun back around and got in Cassak’s face, the fool captain who’d caused this mess and nearly got Darsal killed.
“Marak, we’ll—”
“Get out of my sight, and get me answers,” Marak growled. He shoved Cassak toward the door. “We’re moving out. Now.”
He swerved back around and surveyed the damage.
Darsal remained. She eyed his sword. “You want my help?”
Marak drew a breath, simmering. “I want you to pack up.”
“Marak, don’t be stubborn. Not now.”
He sheathed his sword and started for the door.
“They’re my friends, my general,” she growled.
“You’ll get yourself killed. Wait here.”
“Mar—”
“I said wait here, Rona!”
Awkward silence slashed through the room.
“My name is Darsal.”
His jaw tightened.
“What are you going to do?” Darsal snapped. “Storm Sucrow’s temple? At least if they kill me, it’s no big—”
“I need someone here,” he barked. “Wait for the messenger; then find Cassak and tell him I’m going to kill that priest.”
“Good riddance.” Darsal followed him out the door and snaked her hand around his waist, toward his knife.
He grabbed her wrist. For a second they both stood still. All the fury drained out of him and turned to . . .
Something else. He pulled the knife toward himself, both their hands still wrapped around it. Darsal was almost touching his chest.
“Let me go with you.”
Marak uncurled her fingers from the weapon and slid it into a sheath, then turned for the door. “That priest will kill you.”
Darsal started after him again. He turned sharply, and she ran into him. He held her at arm’s length. “Don’t follow me.”
“I have to. Elyon’s orders.”
Hating himself, Marak shoved her into the room and forced the door shut before she could yank it open again, then locked it.
“Post a guard,” he barked at the warrior coming to his aid. “She doesn’t leave. Secure the premises, and prepare to move out. And fetch me a scout.”
six
Darsal waited until Marak was long gone. She stewed and tried not to think about what might be happening to Johnis and Silvie. Or what could possibly have caused such a fight between general and captain. This whole mess was taxing on everyone. Marak had clearly lost his mind.
Serve the mission. She loved the Horde, and she loved Marak. How loving them could help anything, how that would serve Elyon’s purposes, she wasn’t sure. Yet.
But Elyon made the Horde, and he loved them, wanted them, as badly as the albinos.
Finally, she could wait no longer. “You have another thing coming if you think I’m staying in here, my general.”
She studied the room and took in the contents. Since the building had never been intended for a barrack, there was little to work with.
Marak’s men had sealed the windows when Johnis and Silvie were quartered here. And aside from a long candle stand or a torch, there was little in the way of weapons. And the guard wouldn’t likely fall for a trick.
Darsal eyed the window, considered breaking out the bars. No, too much time.
The torches were still unlit, though. If she used one, the place would go up in flames too quickly. Instead Darsal scooted the candle stand right next to the curtains over the window, lit it, stood back, and watched them smoke.
The flame caught.
She ran for the door. “Fire!”
“LET HER ALONE,” JOHNIS SNARLED. EVERYTHING WAS A HAZE. He drew a ragged breath. Silvie couldn’t die. Shaeda, help me. Together we can kill him now!
“Entice me not,” the entity growled in his ear.
“More important, you will do as I tell you, or I guarantee she won’t outlive the hour.” Sucrow took the knife from his servant and traced the tip along Silvie’s throat. She didn’t move.
Johnis saw no way out. Not with Silvie one flick of the wrist from death.
She caught his eyes and gave a slight nod, meaning for him to let her die. Let her go. Save himself, take revenge later. They could not kill the priest yet. Shaeda didn’t trust herself to not kill him if she unleashed.
Johnis sagged and let out a soft groan. “Will you let her live if I promise not to defy you?” He spoke the words out loud. Of course, he still had his private thoughts of unlocking the keys to her power and keeping them—apart from her.
Darkness and fog descended, a thunderstorm on the torrent of fire. Johnis felt the abyss of failing Shaeda—her punishment, her whipping—conquer his inner rebellion.
“Josef,” Silvie warned, her eyes half-closed.
Shaeda’s punishment grew more insistent: Finish the mission. Regardless of cost. Even at the cost of Silvie.
Even if it meant an alliance with the priest.
“The mission holds greater weight. We require the priest’s knowledge.”
So she could restrain her passions, when she
chose. Her hate she held at bay, knowing the result of the mission would bring far greater satisfaction than killing him now to save Silvie.
“Only as long as you do as you’re told.” Sucrow played with the blade resting against Silvie’s neck. Revulsion snaked down Johnis’s spine, twisting his face in disgust. Of course the priest would think Johnis was talking to him.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Silvie whispered, pulling away from the priest, her voice low and devoid of emotion.
The door burst open. Darsal stood on the threshold, wielding a long silver candle stand, her cowl once more over her face.
Sucrow curled his lip. “Stay out of this, albino.”
She came between Johnis and Sucrow, inching toward the altar. Johnis took advantage of the slave’s entrance and managed to stagger to his feet with his arms at his sides.
The albino joined Sucrow at the altar. She hesitated with her makeshift club.
“Put that down,” Sucrow ordered the slave. His hand opened, palm stretched out toward her, fingers curled. Darsal was suddenly flung against the wall. Her weapon clattered to the ground. She didn’t move.
A guard went for her.
Shaeda, we have to get out of here. Now.
Johnis drew a sharp breath. “I will take you there, and I will do what you will. But if you kill her, I will come after you.” He met Sucrow’s eyes. “And then I will kill you.”
“You’re hardly in a position to make threats.”
Sucrow nicked Silvie’s throat to make his point. Her blood oozed along her soft skin and onto the altar. The priest collected the crimson liquid onto his fingers and dipped them into a bowl of water.
“It’s always more fun through the throat.”
Sucrow poured the bowl’s contents onto the wound. Smoke curled, sizzling. Silvie yelped and tried to jerk away but had nowhere to go.
The priest kept pouring. Silvie’s skin turned from white to yellow- green to gray.
Johnis lunged, but the guards held him back by the wrists. “Leave her alone!”
“It won’t kill her. At least, it isn’t supposed to.” Sucrow cackled.
A flash of movement. Darsal lifted the candle stand and went for the priest. Swung. Sucrow barely dodged the blow and dropped his bowl, reeling backward. Darsal jumped between Silvie and the priest.
Sucrow stood. He opened his palm and unleashed a stream of fire. Darsal dodged as the flame grazed her shoulder and scorched the stone floor. Her body slapped against the rock, her head bouncing.
Sucrow glided to Silvie’s side, amused at the whole situation. “Or perhaps I could do worse.” He dug his nails into her cheek. Silvie growled but could do nothing. The bloodstain taunted Johnis.
The priest kissed his fingers.
Johnis’s chest constricted. His muscles curled into knots. Shaeda—or he—snarled.
As Darsal groaned and picked herself up off the floor, Sucrow threw his knife at her. But another knife whizzed through the air and struck the priest’s midflight. The weapons ricocheted off each other and skittered across the hard floor. A blast of sound. Darsal slammed back against the wall, away from Johnis. Sucrow’s sorcery.
The room went still.
General Marak of Southern stood on the threshold, another knife ready. His gray-white eyes homed in on the priest.
“I’m pleased you could join us, General,” Sucrow scoffed, turning.
Johnis could feel the changes as Shaeda’s power finally began to flow into him. His heart pounded. They would end this, ally with the priest, get the general and the albino out of the way. His fists knotted. He could snap the metal chains like twigs.
“You’re well out of line, Priest,” Marak growled.
“She’s just an albino.”
“Arya is not. Release them now. We’re getting this cursed expedition over with.”
Johnis lunged for Silvie, but Marak caught him by the collar. Shaeda—through Johnis—lifted her hand and raised it toward Sucrow. She began to recite in a language Johnis didn’t know. His heart rate spiked.
“Save it,” the general snapped. “The next time, Priest, I will kill you.”
Sucrow cackled. “I half expected you to go running for Qurong.”
Marak’s eyes narrowed. “More proof I am not a priest. Let the girl up. We don’t have time for this.”
Inside him, Shaeda stirred, acknowledged the shift in focus. She lowered her talon and stopped mid-incantation. Marak was not in defiance of the priest; neither would he allow the priest access to the amulet. They were working together. He felt her power ebb. There would be no snapping of the chains.
Shaeda, please!
Johnis tugged his shackles. Didn’t Shaeda care?
No, not as long as he was not in danger. Marak was now the mediator between this entity inside and the priest. As long as it furthered the mission, she would not interfere. He must endure a little longer.
“And if I choose not to?” Sucrow sneered.
“Then Josef and I make the expedition without you.” The general’s expression darkened.
No! Silvie!
Johnis dove for one of Marak’s knives. Marak drew back and slapped him to the ground, hard. Johnis started up, but Marak’s sword point threatened to run him through.
“Enough,” Marak snarled. “What are your terms, Priest?”
Sucrow considered his options. “I keep the girl until this is over.”
“Fine. If she dies, the agreement is breached.”
“Agreed. And you kill the albino. She attacked me.”
The two stared each other down.
Marak pulled Johnis up and let him stand, but kept a knife pressed against his ribs. “Come,” he ordered Johnis and Darsal. “We have preparations to make.”
seven
Sucrow left his servants to clean up the mess and load the girl into a small cart with a built-in cage for transport. She would be ready along with his other provisions. He went to take a final look at the old legends, at the ceremony. It had been there all along, right under his nose. He chided himself for not seeing these things before.
But soon enough he would no longer require these fools.
Perhaps by then Marak would be in line. If not . . . more drastic measures might be required. But what more could you do to a man once you’d stripped him of everything?
Well, not everything. Marak still had his position and his very prominent ego.
And his life. And his best friend, Cassak.
But his beloved captain would soon be leaving him. The mere thought made Sucrow laugh. Already the potion was doing its work. Loyalties could be bought, coerced, and traded for improved honor.
“My lord?”
Sucrow glanced up, scowling. A servant stood at the door. Upon his bidding the wretch approached and bowed low.
“What could possibly lead you to bother me at this hour?”
“Marak’s captain is here.”
Like a faithful dog. Sucrow chuckled.
“Bring him in.”
Sounds of commotion filtered in from the hallway as the captain stalked in, sword half-slung. His face was tight, shoulders back. Sucrow couldn’t quite read his expression.
“Reconsidered so soon, Captain?” Sucrow asked.
Cassak’s eyes turned icy. “What is it you want of me?”
Sucrow sat forward and laced his fingers beneath his chin. So the fish had taken the bait, had he? He concentrated, summoning the power of his lord and master to his aid. The captain scratched a spot on his neck, uncomfortable. He could not see the little serpent with its red, pulsing, star-shaped eye at his own throat.
So simple, this ability to control the heart and mind and body of a man.
“Nothing too difficult,” Sucrow assured. “You executed Jordan of Southern along with the other two, correct?”
The captain answered slowly. “I did.”
Technically true. Cassak carried out Marak’s order. It didn’t really matter. Marak was there; Marak gave the orde
r. Sucrow just needed the general to remember who let fly the arrow.
“I would like a copy of your report, as well as Marak’s notations and Martyn’s war journals.” At Cassak’s hesitation, Sucrow reminded, “Qurong gave the general and me equal standing. He did not relinquish my rights to oversee executions. Besides, my understanding is the general made copies. I merely wish to see one of them.”
“Why do you want it now?”
“Merely review.” Sucrow managed something close to a pleased look. He took his staff in hand. “There is no need to tell Marak. I also want the amulet.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Patience, Captain. Tell me something: do you enjoy being a captain? I will put in a word to Qurong that your services have not yet been rewarded. What do you think?”
The little snake bit the captain on the jaw, entrancing him.
Cassak didn’t answer, but his eyes said he was interested.
“Together we will remind Marak of his duties.”
MARAK STOOD IN THE CLEARING SOUTH OF MIDDLE, JUST beyond the gates. His commanders flocked around him. Everyone was accounted for save Sucrow, Darsal, and Josef. He half listened to his commanders, who all parroted things he already knew.
Teeleh’s breath, since when had he become so irritable with his own men?
Darsal had slipped away. He didn’t like the albino being where he couldn’t see her. Where had she gone?
“General, the priest and his men are unaware—”
“A warrior is prepared to break camp and run in under five minutes,” Marak said. Sucrow would show up, just as planned. If the old priest moved too slow and had to catch up, so be it. “We’re leaving as soon as the scouts report.”
He reviewed the checklist in silence. Cassak was supposed to meet up with him in the desert and signal his men to follow . . . provided he didn’t make any more mistakes. He’d become intolerable since his return, since the Eramite skirmish.
And spending so much time on his own . . .
“General, are you certain this is wise?”
“Are you afraid of a superstitious old man, Commander?” Pause.
“No, sir. It’s only—”
Marak passed his checklist to the commanders to mark off. “What makes a warrior, Reyan?”
