Elyon Page 13

  Their blood mingled with the water, stained the desert sand.

  “Shaeda,” Darsal snapped, “let him go!”

  Shaeda hissed. Johnis’s lip curled.

  “Kill her.”

  “Kill her now and we lose Marak,” Johnis growled. He gasped for breath. Shaeda’s energy taxed him. Darsal had torn a hunk of flesh out of him.

  Silvie stirred from the ground. In the end Shaeda would kill Silvie, wouldn’t she? Darsal was right. He was destroying the very thing he loved.

  Did his heart really desire to kill the Circle?

  Kill Silvie and Darsal?

  Shaeda was not rational when she gave way to her hate. Her talons dug into him, punishing his contradiction. And now she knew her pet would never be wholly hers.

  Darsal didn’t lower the leather rein serving as her whip. “Let him go,” she repeated.

  Hoofbeats pounded toward them from the foothills.

  Throaters. Hair on end, Johnis turned. Five of them. His blood ran cold. Why hadn’t he foreseen this? Why hadn’t Shaeda—

  Talons tore into him. Leedhan fury bore down on his shoulders, almost knocked him off balance. “Shaeda, what are you—”

  “Let him go!” Darsal screeched.

  “I do not tolerate weakness,” Shaeda warned between Johnis’s teeth. His knees buckled.

  I am not weak!

  “You have not given me your heart.”

  Darsal turned and met the Throaters head-on. Warryn caught her across the throat with a spear shaft and sent her flying. She hit with a disgusting thud.

  “Foolish albino.”

  Silvie was throwing a fit. Johnis found his sword and invoked Shaeda’s power. Nothing. The Throaters fell on Silvie and struck her hard across the skull. Johnis lunged, then hit the ground and rolled, medallion in his fist.

  Shaeda!

  He crossed blades with the Throater. The Leedhan hissed in his ear, all her strength, all her power pouring out of him. As she left, the full weight of everything she had sustained him through bore down on him. He had neither eaten nor slept. He’d ridden for days on end. He’d fought, he’d run, he’d—

  Johnis went down, sword clattering. Desperate, groping for the medallion. A heavy boot stomped on his hand and took it from him. The Throater sneered. Someone flipped him on his belly and bound his wrists and ankles.

  Shaeda wanted his heart and could not have it. Now she would let the priest have him. Johnis’s mind began to swim.

  Heavy fog surrounded him, blurred his vision.

  The Throaters were talking, but Johnis could barely under stand them, even as they dragged him up and slung him across the back of a horse as if he were a deer carcass.

  “We’ll deal with it,” said Warryn. “Let the general handle his slave.”

  twenty- four

  Darsal woke to the end of a spear shaft probing her. She groaned and rolled away from the intrusion. Where . . . ?

  Eyes opening, she saw reddish-brown desert and warm blood drying on a rock. Everything came crashing back: Johnis, Shaeda, Silvie, the Throaters, Warryn . . .

  She jumped into a crouch and spun.

  “Easy, albino.” Cassak had dismounted and glared at her, still holding his spear. Behind him his horse stamped and shied, nervous. He spat. “I should have talked the general into executing you.”

  “Talked him into it?” How dare he talk about Marak like that. Darsal raised a brow, scanned the ground, heart pounding. This wasn’t the Cassak loyal to Marak—who would spare her for his friend’s sake.

  The starry-eyed serpent at his throat seemed to come alive.

  “We could find out what he thinks of that.” Her blood and Johnis’s had already soaked into the dirt. The horses were gone. The Throaters, Johnis, and Silvie were all gone. Were they dead? Had Warryn taken them somewhere?

  “He knows what I meant.” The captain seemed pensive, though, as if he hadn’t intended it the way it sounded after all. What was Sucrow using him for?

  “I really don’t have time to argue.”

  Behind Cassak the rest of the expedition party was coming, a black shroud of Shataiki in the lead. All was gray and black, riddled with beady, glowing red.

  What had Warryn done to them?

  Elyon’s words nibbled at the back of her mind. She felt her heart straining in two. Darsal was being spiteful, and she knew it. At the moment she wasn’t sure she cared. But she loved them, didn’t she? Even Marak’s captain.

  She forced herself to soften. Love the Horde.

  “I think you do. What’s happened here?” the captain demanded. He traded his spear for his sword. Darsal kept her palms extended. She’d taken Johnis’s knife, but the Throaters must have taken it away from her, thought her dead. Why didn’t Cassak just run her through?

  Because Marak wouldn’t want him to. That knowledge would work to her advantage. Part of the captain still struggled against the enchantment. Her mind raced for an answer.

  “I was looking for water,” she snapped. “Is that a crime?”

  Easy, Darsal.

  Why should she be? This man would kill her were it not for Marak’s orders, and Marak had every intention of allowing the priest to kill all of them.

  Return to the Horde and love them for me. For Johnis.

  She pushed back the gentle reminder.

  “There was a fight,” he said.

  “The priest’s Throaters are a pack of jackals.” Darsal’s brow went up again. She crossed her arms, then remembered this captain had hated the priest at one point. She wondered how much he hated Warryn, chief of the Throaters. Maybe if she could get to the bottom of Cassak’s enchantment, she could give Marak his best friend and most trusted officer back.

  She had never lied to Marak, and he was impressed by that. Impressed that he could trust her, a sworn enemy. And Cassak and Marak were made of the same cloth.

  So she told the truth.

  “Warryn attacked us. Sucrow’s making a power play.” She frowned. “Marak doesn’t know about it. Did you?”

  Cassak tensed. He rubbed his neck. “Where are Josef and Arya?”

  “Tied to a cactus, for all I know. I need to find them before Warryn kills them. Remember Warryn, the one who made you watch him torture your best friend’s family?” Her heart was in her throat. I’m sorry, Marak. I don’t have a choice. Darsal thrust out a hand. “Lend me a knife, in case the Throaters come back. I’ll return it.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed.

  “I swear by Elyon.” And on the books. “And I won’t tell anyone where I got it, either.”

  “General would know.”

  Darsal stared at him. The man was split in two. One side showed her concern out of loyalty to Marak. The other seemed to despise everything he and Marak once held in common.

  “What’s Sucrow done, Captain? Are you really going to punish your best friend for what never was? Turn your back on him to serve a man you despise? That’s what Josef ’s done. And it’s killing him.”

  He hesitated. Darsal snatched his knife and ran. Cassak grabbed her collar. “Get back here, you little—”

  “So you won’t get in trouble.” She punched him in the face, swung onto his horse, and galloped off.

  JOHNIS BUCKLED IN PAIN. THE WORLD SEEMED TO SWIM, and everything was fuzzy. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t see more than a blur. Tried to move, but his cold, stiff muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Sand kissed his cheek.

  “Such a weakling you’ve proven, Chosen One. Such a pity . . .”

  “Bloody fool,” said a familiar voice that Johnis couldn’t place.

  Another kick to his already broken ribs. His head rose up against his will. A potent drink that smelled like Rhambutan and eggs slid down his throat. Bitter, hot liquid flooded his mouth.

  Johnis gagged and tried to spit it up.

  “None of that, now,” said his tormentor. The rebuke came with a sharp blow to the side of his throbbing skull.

  He swallowed. Shaeda . . . Where
was Shaeda?

  She’d left him. Abandoned him to the priest she despised. Had she planned this all along? Johnis rolled his head back and let out a groan.

  “Foolish son of Ramosss . . . Did you truly believe I would remain with one so powerless? Nay, my pet . . . there are much larger trophies than you in poor Middle.”

  “Silvie . . . Silvie, where are you?” His voice echoed.

  More voices.

  “‘Silvie, Silvie!’” Shaeda taunted. “That leech has passed into the nether realm. Since you will not fully aid me, I will not allow her to live. Nor you, my unchosen one.”

  A whip lashed across his bared, flaking skin. Johnis opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He struggled, but his limbs rebelled against his will.

  A cord wound around his neck and pulled taut, strangling him.

  He sputtered and coughed, writhed on the ground. It felt like someone was dragging him over a bed of nails or hot coals. Johnis screamed this time. Laughter answered him.

  “Pitiful son of Ramosss . . . Thomas would be so displeased . . . So disappointed that his best was far too weak . . .”

  Johnis lost consciousness and dreamed, dreamed he was underwater, hunted by a creature and devoured alive. The beast gave one last gulp, and Johnis slid into the hot, acidic blackness.

  “Wake up!”

  Johnis groaned and rolled over, startled to realize he could. His body felt torn to shreds. And maybe it was. The hand shook him. “I said wake up!”

  Someone helped him sit up and tried to give him water. He turned his head to the side, but they grabbed his jaw and forced him to drink it. Warm, muddy water mixed with some kind of citrus slid down his throat.

  “You’re worse than your wench.” His captor cackled.

  Why are you doing this?

  “I have spoken, my Johnisss . . . I require a more formidable ally, one whose loyalties are wholly mine . . . Farewell . . .” Shaeda laughed.

  Johnis’s head cleared a little, enough to know his arms were bound behind his back and his ankles secured painfully against each other. A bloody gash oozed on the side of his head, and needle pricks of pain drilled into his arms and legs. His rib cage felt crushed.

  “I’m not sure who screams louder, you or the wench,” the taunt continued. “She broke easily enough. We’ll see about you.”

  He struggled to breathe, and on top of the rotten egg, citrus, and Rhambutan juice, he smelled a sickly sweet substance that dominated his senses above all else.

  Johnis shook his head and opened his eyes. He was in the desert, surrounded by Throaters. Warryn was the speaker. Sucrow had the medallion. Silvie . . . Where was Silvie?

  Shaeda . . . Shaeda, wait! You gave your word!

  Warryn snickered. “So you haven’t died yet. Pity.”

  Johnis pursed his bloodied lips. He scanned the ground. Before him was a pit, a yawning gash in the ground, just deep enough that if he were thrown in, he wouldn’t be able to climb out. But Silvie . . .

  The Throater struck him across the side of the head, then cackled. “Such a pretty thing, the girl was.”

  Johnis snarled and lunged, then realized his wrists were over his head. “If you’ve touched Silvie . . .”

  “I really don’t care.” Warryn raked his nails over Johnis’s face and drew blood. Johnis swallowed the coppery-tasting liquid and too-salty saliva.

  “Where is Silvie?”

  Warryn leered. “Regrettably, she didn’t last very long.”

  “I want to see her!” Johnis pushed up with his elbows but couldn’t find any leverage. Someone kicked him down. His shoulder popped. Johnis grimaced.

  “There’s really nothing there you’ll want to see.”

  “I want to see her.” Johnis’s stomach rebelled on him. He couldn’t make himself believe that Silvie was dead. The Throater was lying; he had to be.

  “What did you do to her?”

  Warryn dragged Johnis up by the chain that tethered his arms together and laughed in his face. “I’ll leave her fate to your imagination.”

  Johnis started to protest, but Warryn flung him into the pit. The chain went taut and snapped his shoulders out of place. All his weight was suspended on his joints. He nearly passed out from the pain.

  Johnis glared up at the Throater, looked for any source of leverage. He tried to grab the chain but couldn’t.

  Warryn left him, still gloating, no doubt. Johnis forced himself to breathe. He was in a hole . . . in the ground. A grave.

  twenty- five

  where are they?” Marak was in Sucrow’s face. He hadn’t taken Sucrow’s divulgence well. Josef and Arya were dead; Marak’s precious albino had abandoned him.

  The general really needed to mind his priorities.

  Sucrow sneered, amused at the general’s outrage. He had considered lying to Marak, but in some ways this was better. Sucrow twisted the staff in his hand and fingered the amulet beneath his tunic. Warryn had done better than Sucrow anticipated, which pleased him. At the moment his chief serpent warrior was likely making up his grievance with the Eramites the previous week.

  Now, how would Marak respond to his captain’s betrayal?

  “Are you more concerned about the loss of extra baggage, General,” Sucrow cackled, “or the loss of your albino and the amulet?” Dark tendrils sifted from his staff to Marak’s neck, constricting. Marak rubbed the spot unwittingly.

  Sucrow extended his hand to his servant and accepted the second jar of blood. The Chosen One’s blood.

  Marak’s white eyes sized Sucrow up, no doubt considering tearing him apart. Morst cracked across his face and dripped down his cheeks and neck.

  The general fingered his sword.

  Sucrow laughed. “Do you really believe that sword will be of any use against me, Marak? I am Teeleh’s high priest, and the amulet is back where it rightfully belongs. I have had power beyond comprehension for longer than you have been alive, and this is the greatest charm I have ever known. So you tell me how you think you will fare with two million of my lord’s faithful at my back.”

  As if in answer, Derias gave out an agitated roar as the edge of the eclipse passed over them. Sucrow chanced a glimpse, still awed at the presence of so great a beast. Soon, he thought. Soon you will be released from your prison.

  Marak snarled a minute longer, hand still on his sword. “Ride,” he snapped, quickening the pace.

  Sucrow spurred his own mount, still considering the amulet. “As soon as this is over, General,” he promised, “Teeleh’s servants will feast on you as well.”

  MARAK GALLOPED AHEAD OF THE OTHERS, NO LONGER willing to run alongside the priest but compelled to ride out to this high place as swiftly as possible and be done with the matter. The black horde above prodded him on.

  Beneath his tunic, Jordan’s pendant bounced against his chest. Why he was wearing it, he’d never explain to the others. But why shouldn’t he wear his brother’s necklace?

  Forget it. And Darsal. Above all, forget Darsal. A knot formed in his stomach.

  “General!” A figure on foot waved. As his mount’s pounding hooves carried him closer, Marak saw his captain, blood and dirt smeared over him. No knife. Cassak fumed.

  Marak drew up on the reins, circled his captain. “Where’s your horse?” He pulled up and glanced back. The dark shadow was already over them, and Sucrow would be only minutes behind.

  “Your albino,” Cassak snapped. “She knocked me out and took my knife and my horse and rode off to Teeleh knows where. Cursed wench.”

  Marak bristled at the slur and felt the knot in his gut tighten.

  “She left,” the captain accused. “She ran like a bloody coward.”

  Marak didn’t respond.

  Cassak snatched the reins and jerked the horse’s head around. “I told you this would happen. I sent men after her. If she fouls this up, Marak—”

  Marak snatched the reins free of his captain. “She can’t foul it up, Cassak. Josef and Arya are dead. Sucrow has
the amulet. I have the army. Why don’t you tell me how one unarmed woman knocks you out and takes your knife right out of your belt?”

  One of the scouts raced back to him and saluted. “General, we’ve located the Ba’al Bek. Also, Eram’s search parties—”

  “Give the captain a fresh horse,” Marak barked at him. He scowled at Cassak, awareness of their breaking—already broken—friendship settling on his shoulders.

  The scout dismounted and offered his reins to the captain. “I run fast enough, sir.” Normally the gesture would have been immediately rewarded, but Marak was too frustrated to bother responding to it.

  To Cassak, Marak ordered, “Take ten and clear out the rebels. Don’t tell them anything.”

  The brusque charge stunned Cassak, and for a moment he just stared. Then he gave a crisp salute and swung onto the scout’s horse. He shouted at the beast and was gone.

  The eclipse now completely overshadowed them. Derias’s howl drowned out everything. Marak glanced back and saw the priest signaling him. He let Sucrow catch up.

  “General, there is—”

  “Last leg. Try to keep pace.” Marak slapped the reins, knocking foam off horseflesh.

  twenty- six

  Darsal rode through the desert, praying to Elyon she would find Johnis and Silvie alive. She kept her course toward the high place, guessing that Warryn would plan to rejoin Sucrow and the other Throaters once he’d finished with his prisoners.

  Two million Shataiki blacked out the sky and made time impossible to determine. She searched for Cassak’s water bottle and drank from it, then grimaced. Horde water was anything but clean.

  Somewhere beneath the canopy, one hundred warriors, twenty Throaters, Marak, and the priest were headed for the high place.

  A cold, numb sensation swept over her. Darsal shook it off. On this path around the foothills, Warryn could find plenty of places to dump bodies and still reach his master quickly, she surmised.

  Don’t think that.

  Still, the gnawing understanding that Johnis and Silvie were most likely dead, combined with the knowledge that she’d probably ruined any chance of winning Marak’s love, wouldn’t leave her. She felt the coarse, grating pain down to her bone and marrow.