Elyon (17 page)
“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.
w
here 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.
D
arsal 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.
Her mission had failed, and they were all dead.
Several hours passed, and still no sign. Her torch burned out, leaving her in the unnatural darkness. Darsal stayed her course, headed now into the foothills where the race was on. Marak and Sucrow would follow the scouts’ advice and go around along the easier trail. But Darsal would cut through, and she was alone.
Assuming she was still heading north.
“Follow the bats,” she grumbled to no one.
The horse startled. Darsal shouted and yanked his head down, pulled him in a tight circle. “Easy,” she snapped. “Two million Shataiki and now you decide to—”
“Didn’t mean to spook him,” said a familiar voice. Darsal whipped her head toward Gabil, who slapped the air with his wings and lighted in front of her in the saddle. His green eyes stared up at her. “But you’re going the wrong way.”
“I’m going north,” Darsal fired back. She heard the Shataiki queen’s snarl from above, but when she looked up, she could see nothing but a black sea of the swarming beasts.
“Well, yes. But Marak’s ahead of you now.”
Darsal cracked the reins and got the horse moving again. The motion unsettled Gabil and made his wings flutter as he rebalanced himself.
“How far?”
“Half a mile or so. Not too far. But that isn’t what I meant. You see—”
“Where are Johnis and Silvie?”
Gabil cocked his head. “I thought your mission was Marak.”
“My mission is the Horde. To woo and win their love for Elyon. And I failed. My only choice is to try to find Johnis and get out of this mess.” It sounded foolish when she said it, though. “I can’t take on two million Shataiki, Gabil. Even you can’t do that.”
The Roush was slow to answer. “Well, true, but who told you to take on two million Shataiki, Darsal?”
“I can run a blade through their priest easily enough,” she snarled. “If I reach them in time.” Yes, that was a good plan, now that she thought about it. “Just tell me where Johnis and Silvie are, and point me through the mountains.”
“You know I can only do so much, child.”
He sounded more like Michal just then, and that unnerved her.
“How do you plan to drown them?” he asked at last.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“And Marak?”
“I broke his heart. It’s over.”
Gabil glanced up at the Shataiki swarm, then back at Darsal. “So that’s it?”
“Human love only goes so far. Johnis, Gabil. Johnis.”
“But Johnis isn’t—”
“I am not going to talk about Marak.” She fought the urge to knock him clean off the horse. But that would be foolish. Gabil was trying to tell her something, and she didn’t like where he was going.
“I’m out of time with him,” she insisted.
“Well, I don’t know where they’ve taken Johnis and Silvie,” Gabil admitted. “However, I don’t think you’ll succeed unless you first love the Horde.”
“Love them.” Darsal scoffed. “I tried. I’ve been patient.”
Gabil chuckled. “Patient for you, yes.”
She started to argue, then thought better. “You have a point. But that isn’t helping me.” Darsal studied him. A memory surfaced. She drew up short. “That’s why you’re here. I said all along the Shataiki will kill them all, Horde and Circle. It’s true, isn’t it?”
Gabil listened.
“I’m not going to find Johnis out here, am I?”
“You might. You might not.”
She scowled.
“But you can find Marak.”
Darsal tensed.
Gabil continued. “But the question remains: will you be patient a little longer, or do you wash your hands of him?” A pause. “You think you love him more than Elyon?”
She started to protest, but instead accepted his gentle rebuke.
“You think you love Johnis and Silvie more than Elyon? Or do you wash your hands of them as well? You’re all quite stiff-necked.”
