Green: The Beginning and the End Page 7

  “Don’t get me wrong, wife,” Qurong said as they approached the steps. “I wouldn’t be here without a healthy respect for Teeleh. I support all of this . . .” He waved at the Thrall that loomed high above them like a black sentinel with flaming eyes, blocking out half the sky. “I’ve kissed the feet of Teeleh’s vessel, Ba’al, this so-called dragon from the sky, on a hundred occasions. But that doesn’t mean he’s a god any more than my enemies are gods. He’s only human flesh doing the bidding of a god.”

  “Just keep his knife away from your throat,” Patricia said in a low voice.

  “Exactly.” She could be reasonable when she wanted to be. “I swear, sometimes I don’t know who’s worse, the albinos, the Eramites, or my own priests. None of them allows me any sleep. My gut is in a knot over all of this.”

  “Not now,” his wife warned.

  One of the night watchmen opened the gate for them, and they headed across the stone floor to a large atrium surrounded by more of the bronze serpents.

  “This way, my lord.”

  Qurong faced his right, where a hunched priest hidden beneath a hooded black cloak dipped his head and walked toward the sacrificial sanctum. The priest lifted his spindly arm to a large wooden door charred by fire and gave it a push.

  Orange light from a dozen flames spilled out into the hall. He could see the altar on a platform inside, blazing candlesticks on either side. An animal—a black-and-white goat strapped spread-eagle on the altar—sacrificed.

  But Ba’al’s sacrifices were more like butchery. And although he killed animals with the same regularity that he ate and relieved himself, Qurong didn’t know the priest to offer sacrifices in the middle of the night.

  Qurong walked into the sanctum, the holy of unholies, as Ba’al called it. Flames crackled from the torches on the room’s perimeter. Thick, purple velvet curtains hung from the tall ceiling on each side, framing large gold etchings of the winged serpent. Directly behind the altar, the same material closed off an arched passageway, which led to Ba’al’s private library. What kind of plotting and deception was conceived behind that curtain Qurong could only guess, but those guesses were not happy thoughts.

  “Where is he?” Patricia whispered.

  Qurong hesitated. “Doing the work of Teeleh.”

  That he, the supreme commander of more than three million souls, had agreed to leave his home in the middle of the night for an audience with Ba’al was offensive enough. That he had to now wait in these ghastly chambers while the witch took his bloody time wiping off his wet blades was infuriating.

  But this was not the place to betray his emotions. Qurong knew all too well how revered Ba’al was among the common people, particularly now, during the days of the black moon. During the last lunar eclipse, Ba’al came forth from the sanctum and declared that Teeleh had shown him a vision of the coming red dragon, who would devour the children of all who betrayed him. All those who marked themselves as loyal servants of Teeleh and Ba’al would be spared. Three claws carved on the forehead, the mark of the beast’s perfection.

  Qurong had received the mark of the beast, naturally, but he doubted that it would truly protect him, assuming the beast existed.

  The priest who’d let them in climbed the two steps to the platform, shuffled slowly around the altar, and parted the curtains with a withered hand. The door behind the drapes closed softly, and they were left alone.

  “This is asinine,” Qurong mumbled.

  “Hush.”

  The curtain parted and Ba’al stepped into the inner sanctum, dressed in his usual black silk robes with a purple sash around his neck. Layers of gold, silver, and black beads hung over his breast. The circular serpent’s medallion hung from a silver chain.

  Ba’al’s narrow white face peered at Qurong from his hood, like a king judging his subject. The expression was enough to make Qurong’s blood boil.

  The priest carefully navigated the steps down from the platform.

  “Thank you for coming to me so late, my lord.” His voice was low and wet, the sound of a man who needed to clear his throat.

  “This had better be good.”

  Ba’al lifted his face to the Horde leader, and for the first time Qurong saw that the three claw marks on his forehead had been reopened. Thin trails of blood snaked down his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. The man was a masochist.

  “Good?” Ba’al said. “The true child has been born, and now the dragon will wage war on her illegitimate children. That can hardly be good.” He walked around a table to the side. The goat’s head lay on a silver platter, still bleeding, and Ba’al dipped his long black fingernail into the blood. “Babylon will become drunk on her blood yet.”

  “Idiots may swoon with your talk of children and dragons and the end of all times,” Qurong said, “but I’m a simple man who wields the sword. Let’s not forget that here.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Your sword, your power, your stranglehold on the Horde. Forgive me if I suggested that the dragon doesn’t hold his king in the highest regard. He was the one who made you king, after all.”

  Qurong had no patience for this. “So what is it that is so urgent to keep me from sleep?”

  “The day for your full glory has come, my lord, all in good time. But first I must know who you are and who you serve.”

  “What glory? Another ritual to this god who has abandoned us?”

  “Remember where you are, my lord.” Ba’al glanced at the walls without moving his head, then shifted his eyes back to Qurong and brought his wet fingers to his lips. “He has ears everywhere,” the high priest whispered around his taste of goat’s blood.

  Qurong held his tongue.

  “Your loyalty hasn’t weakened, has it? My king?”

  “What are you speaking of?”

  “You do still believe that Teeleh is the true god. That the dragon has given you Babylon?”

  Ba’al had begun this Babylon business a year earlier; Qurong wouldn’t put it past the man to suggest renaming Qurongi City, perhaps calling it Dragoni or something as foolish.

  “What have I done to suggest any slackening of my loyalty?” he demanded.

  “You still believe that we are the abomination of desolation, the dragon’s great Babylon? That we are his instrument to crush the rebellion of those who stand against Teeleh? That it is our prerogative and our privilege, our duty, to drain the blood of every living albino? That there will come from times past an albino with a head of fire, who will rid the world of the poisonous waters and return us unto Paradise?”

  Now they were retreading old ground, these prophesies that Ba’al had pulled from his so-called visions.

  Still, Qurong would give him the benefit of the doubt. “That is correct.”

  “That your very own daughter, Chelise—”

  “I have no daughter,” he interrupted. The priest was egging him on, knowing how the name had haunted his nightmares for so many years.

  “That Thomas and the woman at his side lead the rebellion against Teeleh.”

  “Get on with it, priest. Surely you didn’t bring me here to remind me of all I know.”

  Ba’al stared at him for a few beats, then turned his back and walked toward a desk along one wall. His voice was hardly more than a hoarse whisper.

  “Have you ever considered drowning, my lord?”

  Qurong couldn’t immediately respond. What kind of blasphemy was this?

  Patricia stepped up next to him and dipped her head. “Forgive me, my priest, but you go too far.” Her voice was strained and high. “An accusation of this kind is dangerous.”

  “Of course,” the priest said, turning back. He’d lifted a small scroll from his desk and held it in his clawed hands. “I make no accusation. You’ll understand soon enough. But I do need an answer.”

  Qurong spat to one side and made no attempt to coat his words with anything other than the sentiment that swelled in his mind.

  “If I could do it personally, I would run my sword
through every albino who still breathes.”

  A faint grin crossed Ba’al’s face. “And the drowning?”

  “It is defiance of my reign and all that we hold sacred. The twisted ways of Thomas would drown all of the Horde and tear down this very Thrall. I would rather drown in a bath of poison.”

  “How dare you put him through this?” Patricia challenged. His wife’s solidarity reminded Qurong why he loved her as he did.

  “Just a reminder of who our enemies are. The Eramites, yes, but Thomas and his Circle are the true scourge of our world.”

  “I don’t need your lectures,” Qurong said. “And don’t underestimate Eram or his army. They are growing faster than we are, and they don’t hide like the albinos do. I would think that should concern you.”

  “I assure you, Teeleh’s enemies are albino, not Horde. They will be easily disposed of when the time is right.”

  Qurong couldn’t take this line any farther without casting suspicion on his allegiance. “I bow to Teeleh’s judgment.” He dipped his head.

  “Then drink to him,” Ba’al said, picking up a chalice next to the goat’s head. “Swallow the goat’s blood offered to the dragon, and I will tell you how he will give you your enemies on a butcher block.” He glided across the floor and held out the silver goblet, sloshing with red blood.

  Qurong took the cup, aware that his hand was still shaking from being accused of such treason, never mind that it was only insinuated. He lifted the vessel to his lips and drank deep. The familiar taste of raw blood flooded his mouth and warmed his belly.

  Ba’al had instituted the drinking of blood, claiming that the spirit of Teeleh, indeed the very offspring of Teeleh, came by blood. Indeed, the Shataiki were asexual beings, neither male nor female. They reproduced through blood.

  Teeleh was served by twelve queens, it was said, like the queens of beehives. But they and their minions were genderless and passed their seed through blood when they bit the larvae produced by the queens. Ba’al sometimes referred to a queen as a she and sometimes as a he, but to Qurong’s way of thinking, all of it was nonsense.

  Shataiki were simply beasts.

  Regardless, the taste had agreed with most Scabs, including Qurong. It settled the pain and itching in their flaking skin for several hours and now eased the gnawing in his belly. Unfortunately, there were more than three million Horde now living in seven forests, and there was only so much blood, making it a valuable commodity controlled by the temples.

  He drained the cup. “For Teeleh, my lord and my master,” he recited, and shoved the goblet back at Ba’al. “Do not test me again, priest.”

  The dark priest handed him the scroll.

  “What is this?”

  “A message that came to me an hour ago. Read it.”

  Qurong unrolled the stained paper and stared at the top. This was a communiqué from . . . the circular emblem at the top bore into his mind. His eyes dropped to the bottom and he saw the name: Thomas of Hunter.

  “Yes,” Ba’al sneered. “He shows his face after all these years.”

  “Who?” Patricia demanded.

  “Thomas of Hunter,” the priest said.

  The spoken name seemed to rob the room of its energy. Patricia kept silent. Qurong’s heart slowly doubled its pace. The last communication with anyone among the albino leadership had come three months after Chelise’s departure, when Qurong declared open war on the albinos. Ba’al’s Throaters and his elite guard had rounded up over a thousand since, but not one among the original leaders. They’d gone into deep hiding.

  He stepped closer to the torches on the wall behind him and read the writing on the paper:

  To Qurong, Supreme Commander of the Horde

  And Ba’al, Dark Priest of Teeleh, Shataiki from Hell

  Greetings from the Circle, followers of Elyon dead to the disease and risen with hope for the return of Elyon, who will destroy all that is evil and remake all that is good.

  Ten years have passed and still you relentlessly persecute my people, falsely believing that we have meant ill toward the diseased Scabs whom you rule. We have not waged war on your people, though we have the capacity to do so. We have not burned your crops, nor robbed your caravans, nor harmed you in any way. Still you pursue us deep into the desert and slay us where you find us.

  It is in our best interests to end this. I therefore cast before you a challenge:

  Take a contingent of your most revered and unholy priests and meet me at the high place with Qurong and his armed guard. I will present myself with three of my most trusted followers. No more. There, at Ba’al Bek, we will know the truth.

  If Elyon refuses to show his power over Teeleh, then I, Thomas Hunter, who lead the Circle, will surrender myself and the location of every tribe known to me, and you may be rid of the albinos once and for all. They will either renounce their drowning and become Horde or die by your hand.

  If Teeleh refuses to show his power over Elyon, then you, Qurong, and you alone will drown and become albino.

  If you betray me and conspire to kill me before the terms of this agreement are met in full, then you will have martyrs in Thomas of Hunter and three of his trusted followers. I await you at Ba’al Bek.

  Thomas of Hunter

  “What does the traitor want?” his wife demanded.

  “He’s issued a challenge. A duel of sorts between his god and Ba’al. At Ba’al Bek, the high place.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Qurong turned to Ba’al. “What am I supposed to make of this madness?”

  “What madness?” Patricia snapped. She pulled the scroll from his fingers and read.

  Qurong ignored her. “Can your god do what he challenges?”

  “My god? Teeleh is the only true god, and he’s yours as well as mine. Or do you falter so easily after a few words from your nemesis?”

  Ba’al clearly saw an opportunity here. That a challenge from a group of scattered vagabonds should be taken seriously was by itself humiliating. But that this simple challenge, however misguided, should unnerve him was unforgivable. Who did Thomas of Hunter think he was, issuing such a foolish challenge?

  Qurong’s gut clenched with pain and he walked to the table, where a flask of wine sat next to two silver glasses.

  “You called me out of my sleepless dreams for this?”

  “If you don’t mind . . .” Cassak, his general, now held the scroll. “If this is true, if the leader of all albinos is foolish enough to wait for us at Ba’al Bek, we could easily end his life. And the lives of his three followers. Even Chelise, if she is with him.”

  Patricia glared at him. She still clung to the imprudent belief that she might one day recover a daughter. Cassak was a fool not to understand the way of a woman’s heart. He would have to talk with the man.

  “Killing Thomas is no easy proposition. Even if he could be taken or killed, he’s right; he would be seen as a martyr and replaced by another dozen like him. He’s mocking us with this letter.”

  “Is he?” Ba’al said.

  “You suggest we take this seriously?”

  “You doubt that I can destroy him in this little game of his?” Ba’al returned.

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  There was the real question, he realized. He’d betrayed his own doubts in Teeleh’s power by asking it.

  “Have you seen the evidence of Elyon lately?” Ba’al asked. “No, because there are no angels named Roush nor a god named Elyon. These are the figments of the albinos’ imagination. The red waters they drink infect them with a disease that bares their skin and fries their minds. We all know this to be the case.”

  “And if you’re wrong? If Teeleh, who isn’t too eager to show his face either, doesn’t show up and crush them, then what? I drink their red water? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Unlike you, I see Teeleh frequently. Trust me, he is as real as your own scabbing flesh. Don’t you see it? Thomas of Hunter is playing into our hands. The red dragon
who rules the seven horns will devour this albino child and end the time of the Circle once and for all. Your war on them has had its desired effect. They are begging us, out of desperation.” Ba’al bit off each word and squeezed his black nails into a tight fist.

  The allure of being handed the whole of the albino insurgency on a platter presented itself to Qurong in full color for the first time.

  “Sir.” Cassak stepped forward. “Forgive the observation, but there is no guarantee that this isn’t a trap to kill both you and the high priest.”

  “They don’t ascribe to violence,” Qurong said.

  “No, but they could take you and force you to drown. They could—”

  “Do the red water’s poisons work if one is forced to drown?”

  “I don’t know,” the general said. “The point is, this must not be done on his terms. We should take the army. Even the Eramites take courage from Thomas Hunter’s evasion of capture. We look small, unable to kill this one man. Here is our chance. We could then strike at a demoralized Eram and be assured victory.”

  Qurong regarded Ba’al. He understood now why the priest had summoned him here. This battle would be fought and won in the heavens, not with swords. This was a matter for Ba’al, not Qurong. The dark priest needed only his consent and attendance.

  He kept his eyes on the priest as he spoke. “Hunter would see our army and be gone. Those were not his terms.”

  “Not if I commanded the Throaters,” Cassak said.

  The temple’s military wing consisted of five thousand highly trained assassins commonly referred to as Throaters, named after less-discerning killers among the Forest Guard, before it had been defeated and assimilated by the Horde. Indeed, most of the original Forest Guard had left Qurongi and joined Eram in the northern desert. The Horde’s greatest fighters were now Eramites.

  But they were vastly outnumbered by his full army, Qurong reminded himself. His own Throaters were gaining strength too. The whole matter was an absurd mess. He hated the albinos with a passion, but he feared the Eramites more, regardless of what Teeleh said. He doubted nearly everything attributed to the bat god, whom none of them had seen for a very long time.