Elyon

by Ted Dekker

  The minutes ticked by. He was out of air in the bowels of the lake. He turned for the surface, but couldn’t find his direction. He continued to swim, certain he was being pulled down, not up. And he couldn’t find Silvie. Maybe the same suction had forced her under as well.

  His lungs burned. Johnis kicked and thrashed, resisting the impulse to inhale. No, no! He would not die!

  “Trust me, Johnis. Trust me.”

  He froze. That voice was not Shaeda. It was masculine, and didn’t match that of the Leedhan at all.

  And yet her laughter now came on the new voice’s heels. “Such will not be long now . . .” Shaeda dragged him down, forcing him with the pull of her mesmerizing gaze, the lethal, bottomless eyes.

  The surface was nowhere to be found. Yellow and red overtook his vision. He knew he was dying, thrashing in the lake like a fish caught in a net. The more he fought, the worse it became.

  “Johnis . . .” came the new voice again.

  The outline of a hand appeared, a large, calloused palm with worn and bleeding fingers, cracked from years of hard work. The hand extended toward him.

  Instinctively he reached. Their hands touched. “Breathe, Johnis. You need to breathe,” the new voice commanded.

  A sharp jerk pulled him down. Johnis gasped. Water poured into his lungs. He curled into a ball and started to sputter. Not like this. Anything but this. More water flooded his lungs.

  “Breathe, Johnis!” the male voice shouted in his head. “Trust in me!”

  The faster the stranger pulled him, the more water gushed into his body. His mouth opened wide against his will. Johnis pulled back.

  “And now, my pet,” Shaeda taunted. “Your life is forfeit. Farewell, son of Ramos. Now, die.”

  “Breathe!” the new voice commanded once more.

  And he did.

  Wide-eyed and terrified, with absolutely no way out and this hand pulling him deep, deep into the heart of the lake, Johnis stopped fighting and drew in a greedy mouthful of water.

  The pain completely racked him. Johnis screamed and allowed himself to go limp, allowed this person to carry him where he willed. Everything went dark, and all he knew was the rushing water all around him.

  His body was dead, he knew. And he knew whose hand he held. Through the darkness he went, boyish laughter all around.

  Elyon?

  The giggle swelled.

  “Hello, Johnis. Swim with me.”

  Blackness gave way to green light, and green to red and gold. Elyon’s laughter turned to screaming, and Johnis’s whole body almost exploded at the sound of it, coming apart at the seams.

  And then it ended, and they swam.

  Johnis continued to breathe, taking in water in the same manner as a fish. They swam along the bottom and skimmed the mud with their fingers. Johnis quivered at the rush.

  “There are still a few things for you to do, Johnis. Are you ready?”

  They started for the surface.

  Johnis felt the water cool, and in moments his head broke through. He flung droplets from his hair and swam to the ledge, then hoisted himself over, still shaking.

  He vomited water.

  A fair-skinned, slender body tackled him to the ground and rolled along the grass with him, arms locked around his neck.

  “Johnis!” Silvie kissed him over and over.

  Johnis returned the embrace and the kiss, savoring his reunion with his beloved. Then he stood, brushing himself off. He stared at his hands. His smooth, tanned hands. Even his injuries from the torture were gone.

  “I thought you were . . . I thought . . .”

  Silvie draped her arms around him and kissed his temple. Johnis looked up and saw Darsal watching them.

  “Stubborn little scrapper,” Darsal said.

  The humor faded quickly. With one mind they glanced up at the shadow above.

  Johnis glanced at Darsal. “How much time do we have?”

  “Not much. Sucrow has already gone up. It won’t be long. Now’s a perfect time to put that brain of yours to use.”

  He ground his teeth and fell quiet for a second.

  “I’m sorry for—”

  “All’s forgiven between us, scrapper. But we need to move.”

  Johnis studied the two women and looked once more at the brewing storm cloud of bats. Something else came to mind. In those last seconds Shaeda had said something about the general, about Marak.

  He had to know. “Marak . . . ?”

  “Don’t ask me about Marak.” Darsal looked away from him.

  Like Billos. She didn’t like to talk about it. And as far as Johnis knew, she still blamed herself and always would. A knot formed.

  “Oh, Darsal. You loved him.”

  Silence. It was worse than the expected reaction.

  “That’s how I knew I couldn’t force you to drown.”

  His eyes snapped open. But he said nothing. Instead, he settled his nerves and focused on the task. So Shaeda had lied. Marak was dead. It was only a taunt blowing in the wind.

  “What of the amulet?” Silvie took the second horse. Johnis swung up behind her.

  Darsal mounted. “Its power is broken.”

  MARAK STRUGGLED AGAINST SHAEDA, ANXIOUS TO KILL Sucrow and take the amulet, to kill the albinos and be done with it. She held him fast, invisible talons cutting into his marrow. He watched the priest raise staff and amulet high over his head, and a crack of lightning sounded behind him. From within the ring of fire, bats readied to fly, and Sucrow began to speak.

  “And now, guardian of the Shataiki and all your brood, prepare to take flight! May your wrath take full vent upon our greatest enemy! Let all behold and be terror-struck, and all the—”

  A sharp gale of wind snuffed out the torches, and a loud thunderclap shook the ground. The force of the gale was deafening. Sucrow, the Throaters, Cassak, and Marak were thrown hard off their feet. Marak landed on his shoulder and winced.

  All went perfectly still. A tingling sensation took hold of him. For a full minute there was no sound, not even the rustling of wings.

  They stood quietly, gaping. Marak saw the amulet lying on the ground, inches from Sucrow’s hand. The priest rose and held it up, shaken but undeterred.

  Marak’s skin tingled. Purple haze washed over him. Shaeda’s siren song turned to musical laughter. Her strength began to pour into him. His mind sharpened, homed in on the priest.

  “And now,” Sucrow said, his voice echoing in the strange quiet. “Now, go ye forth; hunt down and feast upon every last albino that has breath, from the eldest among them to the smallest squalling babe! And—”

  A black blur swooped down over Sucrow’s head with a deafening roar. Derias’s talons slashed through the air and tore the amulet from the priest. The sound of snapping bone split the air. Sucrow screamed in pain, grabbing his arm, blood spilling from where the priest’s hand used to be.

  The Shataiki swooped again and threw the Dark Priest across the depression, then circled around, landing a short distance away with the amulet, Sucrow’s bloody, ring-studded hand still attached, dangling from his claw.

  Derias started to laugh, a low, dark sound. His wings opened wide. The monstrous Shataiki turned to Sucrow, who hadn’t quite recovered from his fall. His large talon opened to finish off the priest.

  Shaeda’s restraining hand released Marak. Her power burst into him. Marak felt his skin and eyes fill with her unnatural light. He unslung his sword. Derias turned. Shaeda slashed off part of the Shataiki’s claw and swept the medallion into Marak’s hand before it could fall.

  Derias bellowed, shaking the rocks. His huge wings pounded the air. Marak palmed the amulet and looked up. Once more the bats came alive, awaiting their new master. Sucrow shouted indignations and tied off his wrist. Marak vaguely heard the priest’s healing incantation.

  Shaeda’s mind opened. She drove down on him. “Now, my pet! Hesitate not!”

  Marak caught up. He bristled. Everything now hinged upon him, not the prie
st. But how . . . ?

  “Johnis is dead; concern yourself not with him! All the power now lies with you, for you have taken the amulet from the Shataiki guardian. Use such!”

  Killing the albinos meant killing Darsal. He couldn’t—

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” The priest snarled. He stood, still bloody. All eyes were on Marak, expecting him to give the incantation and command.

  But . . .

  Shaeda grilled him. Fog, purple haze, and searing anguish drove down on him, demanding he give in to such. One sentence and it would all be over. One sentence and it would be done.

  Marak grimaced, buckling under the weight of her might. Teeleh’s breath, she was strong. Her mesmerizing gaze took hold. Once the albinos were dead, he could kill the priest and take full control of the Horde, of the Shataiki.

  Forever.

  “Yield to me, my mighty one. Yield . . . Speak this command, and all shall be well; I wish not to harm you. But the incantation you must give . . .”

  “No,” he breathed, barely standing. He glimpsed Sucrow staggering for him. The bats had formed a ring around Marak so that no one could harm him. The cloud started to boil. Thunder struck the sky.

  And in that same moment he understood the depths of Shaeda’s cunning. She had missed no detail. A chill wound around him.

  She had persuaded Josef to kill himself. Suicide.

  “I can’t kill my own—”

  Her claws ripped into his back. Marak bellowed in pain, his voice ricocheting over the desert. I will not fail!

  Marak ground his teeth. “I cannot—”

  But he could, couldn’t he? Destroy them all, purge this world of the beasts, these so-called men who destroyed everything he loved. Destroy the albinos with their filthy, diseased skin and their tyrant god. Destroy the priest and treacherous Cassak, those who plotted against and killed his family. Those who sought his ruin would perish with the very enemy they detested.

  He could almost hear Jordan in his head, almost hear his brother telling him he deserved death, that justice demanded anyone who set themselves against the master should die.

  This pleased Shaeda. Only Jordan would never want this.

  Marak straightened and raised the amulet overhead before he realized what he was doing. One mind, one heart, one will, one strength.

  “You have a new master now,” he said slowly, savoring the moment. The priest would die first, of that he was certain. Marak sneered. “And now, hear and obey, dark servants of the Great One, of him who rules the brilliant side of the river. Listen and heed me, my puppets, my pets, for you in all your glory are about to face the ultimate defeat. Indeed . . . upon the destruction of these mortals of clay you shall fall from favor, and I shall rise—”

  “Marak!”

  thirty- four

  Amale voice shouted over the throng, a rider rushing up the side of the plateau. No, three riders. Marak whipped his head around. He recognized Josef ’s voice but wouldn’t have recognized his face if he hadn’t called out. No, not Josef, the Scab, but Darsal’s old friend . . . Johnis, she had called him. He had tanned, smooth albino skin and light brown hair and eyes. With one hand he held the reins; with the other he had a sword at chest level.

  Arya charged behind him. Only this was Silvie—Marak’s mind was still making the adjustment—with short, blonde hair and icy-blue eyes, two knives at each thigh and another ready in her hand.

  And bringing up the rear—

  His heart lodged in his throat. Darsal. Dear Teeleh, Darsal.

  She brought her horse to a halt and for a moment just stared. Johnis and Silvie kept coming.

  “Finish such and all is complete!”

  “I thought you said they were dead!” he bellowed at her.

  “They drowned.”

  Marak barely had time for that to sink in. The Leedhan’s claws tore into his spine. A tingling sensation went up. Shaeda continued to grind against him. “Recite the incantation; make haste and unleash these Shataiki upon the foe.”

  “Marak, don’t use the amulet!” Johnis shouted, reaching him. He circled on his mount, staying just out of reach. “You don’t want to kill Darsal!”

  His lip curled into a snarl.

  The three albinos rushed across the high place. Darsal was catching up to Johnis, her face looking as stunned as he felt. Darsal had come back. She hadn’t left. She hadn’t—

  “She attempted to slay you, my pet, my Chosen One. You are alive because I breathed life into your body and revived a lifeless corpse.”

  But the look on her face . . .

  No. She’d left him for dead. He remembered the water filling his lungs, the searing pain as Darsal held him down . . .

  Marak’s grip tightened on the amulet.

  “How are you alive?” Sucrow growled. A Throater had bandaged his arm. He went for his staff. “Get them!”

  “You can’t touch him!” Johnis snapped at the priest. To Marak, “The more you rely on her power, the more control she has! Do you want to be her puppet forever?”

  Marak bristled. “I am no one’s puppet,” he warned.

  “He lies. Come now, brother, will you still not see your own illness?”

  Realization hit. Shaeda had watched Darsal drown him.

  “Ride with us.” Silvie’s blonde hair whipped against her face as she pulled her horse around. The nervous mount reared. She yanked the reins and steadied the animal, twirled her dagger.

  “Look at yourself,” Johnis argued. “Your skin turns colors, your eyes glow, and you aren’t following your heart.”

  Follow his heart. He never had answered his own question: would his heart have killed his family, or died trying to save them?

  A gentle nagging tugged at the back corner of his mind.

  Shaeda tightened her grip.

  Marak’s eyes narrowed. Of course they would try to save their own skins. Shaeda curled his lip into a sneer and gave a low, dark growl.

  “Marak.” Darsal spoke for the first time. Immediately his mind refocused on her. She rode a sweat-slicked warhorse, armed and streaked with dirt and scratches.

  “You—” He tensed. Shaeda clamped down, twisting his face into a scowl, forcing a dark haze over his eyes. The amulet. He had to use the amulet. “I should kill you all right here.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Darsal fired back. “You love me, Marak. And you always will.”

  Sharp talons drove into his skull, demanding his submission. Shaeda’s song overwhelmed him. He had more reason to use it than to not. Marak ground his teeth.

  “It’s Shaeda,” Johnis said, his voice stern. “Marak, it’s Shaeda, not you.”

  “Joh—” Darsal started to speak, but Johnis raised his hand and cut her off.

  He circled Marak again. “You’ve been deceived far longer than I, Marak. I know well how difficult she is to resist—and it’s worse for you because you’ve been deceived longer. But she can’t touch your heart, Marak, and she never will.”

  Shaeda’s presence flooded his mind.

  “Yes, I drowned!” Johnis snapped. “You cannot control Shaeda! She will use you and leave you for dead, just like she did me. We’re alive because of Darsal, because Elyon sent her and we found him in the water, you understand?”

  Marak could see nothing but the Leedhan’s penetrating gaze, riddled purple-red, and the amulet in his palm.

  “Marak, my love.” Darsal jumped down in front of him. She reached out and touched Jordan’s Circle pendant, still around his neck. He’d forgotten it. His mind centered on the sound of Darsal’s voice, on her face, her eyes.

  “Your mind is deceived, but you have my love,” she said.

  What does your heart tell you . . . ?

  There was a commotion from behind, but Johnis and Silvie quickly put it down. Derias let out another roar, jerking against his invisible leash. Shaeda used the distraction to settle her mind and will into his.

  Darsal ignored them, instead pressing her hand flat against Marak�
�s chest. A dizzying sensation shot through him. Shaeda screamed in his head, but Darsal had him riveted.

  “This is what I meant, Marak. This is what I meant.” She kept eye contact. “Your mind is telling you to follow the Leedhan, to destroy everyone, to give in. But where is your heart, my general? I love you.”

  Shaeda snarled in his head. She would kill this albino harlot first. The Leedhan slammed full-force into him, sucker punching.

  Marak’s fist curled. He bent and fell away from Darsal, amulet still safe in his fist. He jerked back around, knife in hand.

  Darsal swung onto her horse. “Come with me to the river, Marak!” She threw out her hand. “Come with me!”

  His heart was not Shaeda’s. His mind cleared, heart racing. The Throaters suddenly moved, swords drawn. Johnis shouted, back to back with Silvie. They pushed the Throaters back.

  He could not kill Darsal.

  “Get them!” Sucrow screeched.

  They would die up here. Marak grabbed Darsal’s hand and swung up behind her. Darsal kicked the heaving beast and sped across the top of the plateau after Johnis and Silvie, knocking aside the priest.

  They jumped over the ledge and raced down the side of the plateau, past the mass of warriors led by Cassak. At the sound of attacking Throaters, the battlecry went up. Cassak screamed from above. Marak glanced back and saw his captain jump astride his horse and barrel after them.

  Darsal threw Marak the reins and sprang from the saddle onto another mount, knocking off its rider. She slapped leather against flesh and raced on. “Come on, Marak, ride with me!”

  “Loyalty, integrity, and honor,” Shaeda hounded. “Are these not your own words?”

  Darsal snatched his wrist.

  Shaeda—Marak—grabbed at Darsal’s throat with claw-like hands.

  Johnis caught Marak by the tunic and yanked his face close. “We are completing the mission! Our mission is to put a stop to this, to keep the Circle alive. I swear on the books, I’m getting the amulet to the river and away from Sucrow—with or without your help! You are a general, Marak—a general under Qurong, the greatest of them all, in league with Martyn! Now, stop fighting the Leedhan with your mind and start thinking with your heart!”