by Ted Dekker
His gaze met hers. She had one purple eye and one blue, both with thin, bloodred slivers. Marak’s eyes widened. He started, but rose slowly, hypnotized by the all-consuming eyes that drank him like water. The knife slid from his fingers.
“Peace, mighty general.” Her musical voice drew him to her. No, she hadn’t spoken, not yet, not out loud. Her thoughts came directly into his mind.
They were in a ravine less than a mile from Ba’al Bek, next to a small pool. All was barren wasteland, brambles, and briars. Nothing survived this far into the desert—not here.
Marak drew a breath.
“Gaze upon me, O valiant one; think not of your darkened troubles. Rather, listen to me, and know that I am she who aids you . . .”
The woman ran her fingers across his chest, up his neck, along his jaw. Her hand closed around the Circle pendant at his throat. For a moment she simply looked at it, a strange smile on her face.
Then she let it rest against his chest.
“Who are you?” Marak stiffened. His hand touched the fallen knife, but he made no attempt to use it. He eased the weapon back into its sheath.
She smiled and withdrew a silver bowl he hadn’t seen a minute ago. “My name is Shaeda, mighty general of Qurong. Such I am who has brought you back from death’s halls and to the realm of the living.Be at peace . . .”
Josef ’s Leedhan. He never would have guessed such a strange creature could be so intoxicating.
Focus, brother. But the voice seemed weak, distant.
Shaeda’s eyes seemed to grow larger, to swallow him up. They grew, and then he could see Sucrow on the mountain, preparing his sacrifice, preparing to use the amulet on the albinos. He could sense the Shataiki’s fury, feel their rage and torment . . .
“Indeed, General Marak of Southern, of Middle, I am the Leedhan monarch of whom the Chosen One has spoken. Regrettably, his sacrifice was a necessary one. And now, now it is you who are chosen for appointed tasks . . . Drink, man of valor, for you are weak from your trials and from thirst, from this woman who twice now has sought your life.”
His throat was parched, wasn’t it? And how did Shaeda know Darsal had tried to kill him? What else had she seen?
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
She seemed hurt and spoke out loud for the first time. “Mighty warrior, I have returned your life to you. Assuredly, my desire is for your welfare. Shall you spurn a maid who rescues you, or disbelieve what your eyes behold?”
Darsal had said something similar. So had Jordan, so long ago. Shataiki, Roush, Teeleh . . . Why not a Leedhan? She had been trying to help them wipe out the albinos, hadn’t she?
This was Shaeda’s plan they were unfolding.
“Taste and see, mighty general.” Musical laughter flooded his mind. “You see, such is not so difficult . . . Taste and see for yourself, my handsome warrior king.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then accepted the water and drank. His head spun as the citrusy, spicy liquid flooded his mouth and burned down his throat. Greedily he drank to the bottom.
“What is that?” he asked.
Shaeda took back the bowl, which vanished. She smiled. Fog swirled around Marak’s shoulders. She tickled his skin. “Such is eluweiss, made from herbs, teas, and the juice of the badaii. But drink is not all you require, magnificent one.”
She then retrieved a purple fruit with translucent, almost glowing, skin. She took a small bite with needlelike teeth, then offered it to him.
He studied the fruit, heart racing.
“The priest has killed your commander and ensorcelled your captain,” Shaeda said. Her voice was low, husky. She palmed the fruit. “He has crouched at the door of your victory, and his desire is for your blood.”
Marak had partially extended his hand to take the fruit, but now he hesitated. Shaeda offered more than a mere fruit, more than food to sate his hunger.
“I offer you alliance,” she said. “The Dark Priest has both the power of the amulet and the power of the Great One, whose name is Teeleh. I give you my own powers, my own craft. You shall have my mind, my eyes, and my strength coursing through your veins. Together we shall put an end to this one who would dare rise up against the lord Qurong and unseat his mighty general.”
He stood slowly and took a step back. “You think me weak.”
“This battle is not won by mortal strength, man of valor. You are strong and full of courage, and for this I come to you. Come, take the amulet from the priest and wield such against the earth’s bane, this Circle. Then ride victorious to Qurong and be rewarded.”
The gnawing in his stomach grew, along with the desire to destroy Sucrow. He heard Derias’s howl. They were out of time.
Marak accepted the fruit and bit into the tender flesh. So sweet the taste, so forbidden . . . He held it there a moment, let the flavor burst over his tongue. His skin tingled; his head buzzed. His senses heightened, and Shaeda’s power, her mind, her will, poured into him.
The smell of bats and humans, dust and Leedhan, assaulted his nostrils. The smell of rotten eggs mingled with the paste. He heard each individual roar, each flap of Shataiki wing, each nervous stamping of his warriors’ horses. His clothes brushed against his flaking, morst-crusted skin.
He swallowed that one bite and felt it surge through him.
Shaeda’s thoughts opened to him. He saw now how delicately she had orchestrated the entire scheme. Long had she considered such a plot, now coming to fruition. She had arranged Jordan’s death; Johnis, Silvie, and Darsal separated . . . She’d left Johnis, who attempted to defy her, and now came to Marak, all with one purpose in mind.
Stop Sucrow and acquire the amulet from the guardian Derias.
“He cannot be allowed to wield such himself,” Shaeda told him. “We must retrieve the amulet, or else the son of Ramos’s sacrifice is for naught.”
Anything to pay back that priest. He drew a sharp breath and devoured the remainder of the fruit. The fog surrounded them. Shaeda stepped closer, her mesmerizing gaze fixed on him. She traced his cheek and slid into his embrace, smiled. Her needlelike fingers tickled his skin. The heady sensation set him aflame.
“We have not time for the pleasantry of acquaintance, my pet.”
Shaeda kissed him full on the mouth, bit his lip. Her grip tightened around him—so much strength in so delicate a creature. She wanted him, and he wanted her.
“My will is your will, my strength your strength,” she thought to him. “Relinquish all to me, my mighty warrior-king.”
Resistance was not an option. Not that he wanted it. He could eat and drink of her and never want again. One purpose, one mind . . .
Marak surrendered his will.
“Grant me your heart.”
Shaeda’s full might poured into him. His skin turned translucent: shimmering white and purple seeped from his eyes. Now he could see in the dark, invigorated by her sight. Rich, dark hues tinged purple.
All was not lost. This was only the beginning . . .
Marak sped up the side of the rock face and was over the lip before he realized he had moved. The wind against his face was breathtaking, exhilarating. He rushed northward, deeper under the wings of the Shataiki toward the plateau. Shaeda’s mind kept him riveted solely on getting the amulet from Sucrow before he could use it, taking all power away from the priest . . .
Ba’al Bek . . . Ba’al Bek . . .
He had to reach Ba’al Bek, and he had to do it now. What he wouldn’t give for a horse—although what horse could possibly run this fast?
Make haste, make haste . . .
His mind struggled to catch up. Shaeda was running at a maddening pace. She was driving him like cattle. Despite the shadows, Marak could see plainly everything before him. He could even make out individual bats amid the swarm.
“See and understand, General . . . Be at peace; go to Ba’al Bek and win back the amulet. Come with me, General. Fly to the high place . . . Make haste . . .”
“Why
?” he asked.
“We shall overcome.”
Shaeda spurred him on. They came down the next rise and into the canyon, then across open wilderness. There he saw a hundred warriors—Cassak’s men—circled around the base of a high-rising plateau that fanned wide like a yawning mouth. The jagged piece of rock was easily over a mile wide. Their torches made a ring of fire darkened by heavy, curling black smoke. Oil and incense and burning wood filled the air.
The entity grew anxious beneath the Shataiki swarm. Cold fear trickled through Marak’s body. Furious at her own weakness, Shaeda pushed him on. They had to get the amulet from Sucrow, and now.
No, not from Sucrow. They needed Josef to die first for the guardian to retake the amulet. Then Marak would take the medallion from the beast’s claw and have favor. He drew a heavy breath.
Atop the plateau was another ring of torches, and from above he could hear Sucrow, savoring this moment and taking pause to worship his god before making his final invocation and calling down the Shataiki guardian queen on the albinos.
“High priest of the Great One am I, and upon my shoulders falls so excellent a task that I might be found worthy to speak words before the Throne and uplift my voice on high. O mighty Teeleh, hear my prayer and the invocation I speak this hour!”
Those words still made Marak’s skin crawl, even though he must have heard Sucrow’s daily prayers for years. Jordan’s voice nagged at him.
“Tread lightly, brother . . .”
He pressed on. The men heard him coming and turned to look. Of course, they couldn’t see him. Not from where he stood.
But the Shataiki could . . .
“Move!” Shaeda screamed through him. She lifted Marak’s hand in clawlike fashion. The men fell away. “Stand aside!”
“Let the spirit of the Great One fall on me, for I have found favor in his hand!” Sucrow’s voice continued to bellow across the desert. “Call down blessing and boon upon your servants; from the hands of Teeleh most almighty, the great one whom we serve, let goodness and favor fall. Rain upon us, O master of all!”
Marak plunged ahead, shouting for the warriors to get out of his way. He scaled the side of the plateau, Sucrow’s opening rite growing louder with every footstep. A lightning storm broke out overhead.
He reached the top and stood behind a semicircle of serpent warriors in time to see a ball of light consume the Dark Priest. He was surrounded by two half-moons of serpent warriors, staff held high, and for a moment he glowed, his skin, hair, and clothing radiant.
Shaeda drove him into a crouch, bidding him linger still. The priest stood in the center of a craggy, rugged hole easily a mile wide. There in his black and purple robes, tight fists gripping the white staff of power, Sucrow truly did look every inch Teeleh’s high priest and not a superstitious old wizard.
The opening orations continued—how long was the priest going to go on? Couldn’t he just kill the bloody Circle and be done with them?
But that would work in their favor, wouldn’t it?
In the back of his mind, a prickling sensation raised his neck hairs, and Jordan’s faint voice drew his hand to his throat, touching the pendant. But Shaeda’s siren song silenced his brother, directed his attention back to the priest.
“And may the accursed albinos fall, and with them whoever dares attempt to thwart us. Let their flesh shrivel and fall aside and their intestines rot and burst forth . . .”
The serpent warriors’ spear butts struck the rock in unison and began pulsing like war drums.
Marak lunged for the priest, but Shaeda held him back. “Patience, my general, patience . . .”
But why? The priest had to die. The priest had to die before the ceremony ended and the invocation rang out. If they waited much longer, they would be too late.
“The Chosen One has not yet died. Yet, when he does, you shall attend the priest and claim the amulet for us.”
You will kill him to further your own purposes? Marak felt a tingling in his spine. If she would turn her back on Josef, could she not do the same to him?
Shaeda’s soothing hand caressed his skin. “Have no fear, my pet. Such was necessary and regrettable. You, however, are required to live and rule with me . . .”
Sucrow lowered his staff. “Bring the sacrifice and the blood.” He took a silver dagger and readied himself while the serpent warriors prepared an offering on the rock, spilling the blood of the Chosen One and of Qurong over grain and wine and the innards of a jackal.
The priest began to speak over those present. “A boon to him who hears my words, who this day comes to the mountain to glory in the work of the Great One, our lord and master Teeleh. Glorious and valiant is he who overcomes such evils and this day becomes participant in the destruction of his master’s enemies! For long have we waged war against the diseased among us, those who would spill out our blood as drink offerings. Against such evil we have long toiled, and now, now, my fellows, my brethren in arms and in faith, comes the fruition of our labors . . .”
The Chosen One . . . The Chosen One was Josef . . . Johnis, onetime friend of Darsal, so long ago overdrawn and destroyed. Shaeda’s mind opened, and he saw her with Johnis and Silvie in the desert, feasting with them as they succumbed to her power.
Shaeda’s power, the mind-bending combination of speed, strength, sensation, and foresight that made her impossible to resist and so intimately desirable.
Johnis had to die, and once he was dead, they would take the amulet from Sucrow. But hadn’t Sucrow killed him already?
No, not yet. Not yet, not yet, but why . . . ?
Not Sucrow, Derias. He hated Derias.
Shaeda’s presence slithered around his throat and clamped down tight. Marak ached to be at the priest’s throat, but the Leedhan’s talons drove hard into his back and shoulders, pinning him in place.
Above him the Shataiki hosts roiled, lusty for blood. They screeched above the thunder, beady red eyes glinting in the blinding flashes of lightning.
Derias, queen guardian of the amulet, swooped low over their heads, his massive leathery wings so close the tip nigh brushed Marak’s ear. Shaeda tensed. Her fear trickled down his spine as melting ice. They both sucked a breath.
Marak’s hand slid to his knife. Shaeda’s intoxicating presence reprimanded him; his mind’s eye saw the Leedhan’s shape—her long, willowy body; her silky, white-gold hair; her perfect skin; and above all, her eyes.
And he also saw Sucrow in all his glory, bathed in a purple haze. Marak licked his lips as the startled priest resumed his ceremony.
A Throater placed a bloodstained knife on the stone before Sucrow. A row of seven Eramites, shackled hand and foot, was dragged before them. Forced to their knees, the rebel half-breeds were stripped, their flesh already torn and bloodied.
A sacrifice, as part of the ceremony leading up to the command to attack the albinos. The fool.
The Shataiki quivered and bristled with anticipation, all snapping their fangs and hissing at the victims. Sucrow stroked the amulet around his neck.
Marak drew his knife and started to rise. Shaeda forced him back down, shoved his blade back into its sheath. Sucrow was so close . . .
Not yet.
First the Chosen One had to die. Marak licked his lips. Then the end would come.
thirty- one
Johnis tensed and squeezed his eyes shut. Someone knelt beside him—a horrible-smelling beast with a seductive voice. She untied the canvas sack around his head, then ripped it off.
“Are you prepared to die, my pet?” Shaeda’s voice still taunted him.
He blinked, wrinkling his face while his eyes adjusted. Darkness lingered, with two million Shataiki overhead. Thin shafts of light flickered between black leather wings.
The same rough hand pushed his head and shoulders up a few inches and pressed a water bottle to his lips. Johnis turned his head, determined to resist.
“Johnis, don’t fight me anymore.”
Soft chuckling in his h
ead. “No, my little Chosen One, no longer shall you resist. You must lay down your life for me and die.”
He squinted and blinked a few more times, then turned his head to look at the woman beside him. His eyes widened, then narrowed. The voice.
Johnis growled. “Traitor.”
“No, Johnis. Look at me. Open your eyes, my friend.”
He obeyed.
“Darsal?” His throat was dry and parched. “D-Darsal . . . ?”
Her brown eyes were bright, brow creased with worry. Her tanned, smooth skin shone in the dusky light.
“Die, Johnis. You must die.”
No, Shaeda, don’t do this. Part of him still wanted his entity, his Leedhan. Her power, her strength . . .
Her will dug into him. Johnis squirmed. She really intended to kill him. And Darsal was helping.
Darsal smiled. “Yes, Johnis. Here, drink. I know you’re thirsty.
Look, Silvie’s already had some.”
Silvie.
His head cleared, heart ached.
You said she was dead!
“She shall be . . . just as you shall be, my Johnisss. She shall have part in your death. In this she shall serve me, she who would not give me your heart.”
Darsal scooted aside so Johnis could see the second figure, much smaller, slimmer, and paler, also staked to the ground about four feet away. Just beyond arm’s reach.
Silvie had turned her head to watch them.
“S-Silvie?” Johnis licked his lips, but his tongue was too dry to wet them. “I thought . . . They told me . . .”
Now he saw her tearstained cheeks. “I saw everything, Johnis. Everything. They made me watch.”
Darsal pressed her water bottle to his mouth again. This time he accepted and drank greedily. Then he let his chin strike his chest. Darsal laid him back down. He tugged the chains.
“Where are . . . ?”
“An oasis in the northwest desert, a mile south of the high place. A particular Leedhan told me its existence.”
“Shaeda.” Johnis struggled, trying to clear his head as much as free himself. His blood grew chilly. The Leedhan was serious. She and Darsal and Silvie were all going to kill him. “So you believe me now.”
