Elyon (6 page)

Johnis rose to his knees and rolled his shoulders back. His muscles tightened. The invisible claws tore at his back, but he fought through the pain. Shaeda’s talons and Sucrow’s magic pulled him in opposite directions.

A small metallic sound rang from behind and to the left of Johnis. An apprentice had a silver knife at Silvie’s throat. The only change in her expression was that she looked much angrier.

Sucrow wanted to play with them. Pungent incense wafted from a bowl on the far side of the room, next to what looked like another shrine and hundreds of feathered serpents that represented Teeleh. Just off center was Sucrow’s altar, much like the one they recently encountered in the Black Forest. Narrow grooves were carved out of the rim to catch blood and guide it into a small silver tray below.

Johnis tried not to shudder as Shaeda’s fear and hatred of the Shataiki overtook him. A purple-and-blue haze fell on him. He could feel every ounce of her disgust at the winged-serpent image. At the Dark Priest.

“What do you want, Priest?”

“Respect,” the priest said. “Your loyalty.”

Johnis growled. “I give respect where it is due, Priest.”

A fist struck him from behind. Johnis buckled under the blow and saw yellow and blue flashes of light. He righted himself and shook it off.

Shaeda’s thoughts turned dark, knocking the wind out of him. She was strangling him.
Shaeda
, he managed.
You’re killing me . . .

She loosed her grip a little, still tense. Her talons still cut into him, so great was her hatred of all things Teeleh.

Release me!
he protested.

The talons dug harder, pinching him. “
Put aside these thoughts of freedom. Freedom for you shall come with death.”

Sucrow laughed. “Still struggling with glorious delusions, Chosen One?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Does Sucrow know? How?”

The priest forced Johnis’s head sideways and traced his crescent-shaped birthmark—the one behind his ear—with his fingernails. Chuckled.

“Oh yes, Witch spoke of you, before Ciphus killed him,” Sucrow taunted. “And then I killed Ciphus. And now, you, Chosen One.”

Sorcerors, to the last of them. Johnis’s skin crawled under the touch. He fought the impulse to recoil out of sheer revulsion. In the end pride quelled his horror.

“Drop dead,” Silvie snapped.

“Arya,” Johnis scolded, refusing to confirm what Sucrow already gathered.

“Pity that wench who bore you had to die.”

Johnis ground his teeth. Sucrow chuckled, still stroking along Johnis’s neck, sending the tingling down his arms and legs. He scrutinized his prey. Reached for the ring on Johnis’s hand. His mother’s ring.

Johnis curled his hand into a fist. The Dark Priest sneered. He pressed into Johnis’s skin, digging at his flesh until he made a ragged cut. Johnis winced.

“You’ve caused me enough trouble.” Sucrow grabbed Johnis by the hair and jerked his head up. “I want to make something perfectly clear so that you understand your place. Agreeable, don’t you think?”

A Throater shoved Silvie to her feet, knife still at her throat, and forced her to the edge of the altar. Her movements were stiff, as if under some spell. She was made to climb on top and lie down on her back.

He chained her to the wood.

Silvie craned her neck and shot Johnis a desperate look. “Jo . . . sef . . .”

She had almost used his real name.

Blood pounded in his temple; his hate rose. He channeled both into a rage and lunged against his shackles. Surely Shaeda would give him strength. Strength to tear off these shackles and destroy the priest who dared touch Silvie.

“She stays with me!”

Nothing. He was helpless.

Shaeda.

Sucrow cackled. “You understand, then. Insurance.”

MARAK WAS COVERED IN BLOOD. HE FOUGHT HIS WAY DOWN the hall toward Josef and Arya’s room in time to see Darsal knife-fighting with an enemy. She sliced into his upper arm and ducked low to keep from tripping. Why didn’t she kill the man?

“Darsal!”

Another intruder. Marak fought him off, took a graze to the ear. He heard a crash and Darsal’s yelp cut short. Marak whirled and saw her motionless on the floor.

His heart lurched.

Marak was on the man before he knew what he was doing. Her opponent slammed into the wall. Marak’s sword fell toward him. Their blades clanged together. Marak blocked a blow. Feinted and sliced a diagonal arc.

The intruder blocked with such force it rattled Marak’s arms. Marak dodged another and slashed against the man’s abdomen, disarmed him, then slashed off his head.

Marak burst into the room that served Josef and Arya and spun around in time to block an attack. He pivoted sideways, unwilling to be trapped by a wall.

A hard hit slammed him to his knees. Blood oozed from his shoulder. Marak blocked again. The sword rose up. Fell.

Then his attacker fell. Marak rammed his knife into the man’s throat.

Darsal kicked the dead man aside and wiped her stolen sword on his tunic. “My general.”

She extended her hand. He jumped up and knocked the blade from her hand. Instantly Darsal punched him in the chest, then went into a defensive stance.

“Darsal,” he growled. She was alive. He could kiss her. Slap her.

Settle down, idiot. She’s alive. Thank Teeleh, she’s alive.

She straightened. “You’re welcome,” she snapped.

Cassak came into the room with several warriors. He tried not to gawk at the albino with blood all over her. What was he staring at, anyway? He’d seen a female albino before. Especially this one.

“They’re gone,” she said.

Thank Teeleh he still had the medallion. Yes, Cassak had barely stopped a war with the Eramites. But his messages had been growing increasingly inappropriate. His interference had cost Marak his entire family, and Qurong’s trust.

Sucrow’s mockery echoed in his head.

The surge of frustration continued, though Marak wasn’t entirely sure why he was so angry with his captain, his lifelong friend.

Of course, Cassak had stood there and watched the priest torture Jordan and Rona. Cassak had carried out Marak’s order to kill them while Marak watched. Cassak had suggested the use of the Desecration on them. Cassak wanted Darsal to die just as badly as the priest.

Cassak had been in command of this stronghold. Only he had access. Only he could have caused the breach.

Sucrow was right about one thing.

“General, they’re—”

Marak exploded.

“Did the entire watch fall asleep at the same time?” he screamed in Cassak’s face. “Was the only person awake in the whole building an albino slave?”

“We’re looking into—”

“Get the scouts on the move now! And when I find out who was asleep on the watch, they’re going to wish they were dead!”

“Gen—”

“Find them, fool!” Marak struck his captain with the flat side of his blade. Ignoring the stammering compliance, he grabbed Cassak by the scruff. “Now!”

“Marak.” Darsal’s voice cut through the purple haze in his mind.

He drew a hard breath at Darsal’s gentle rebuke and let go. “Was it rebels? Or someone else?” he asked. He turned over a body. Inspected it. Recognized it as one of Eram’s men.

“We’re interrogating a hostage now,” Cassak assured him, slightly stunned at being the brunt of his best friend’s wrath. The thought crossed Marak’s mind that he should apologize. But what could he say to explain the outburst?

Cassak slowly composed himself, finished his thought. “One of our men thinks he saw Warryn. Of course, if it was, the hostage won’t admit it.”

Sucrow.

He slammed his fist against the wall. “Sucrow, you bloody bat lover . . . !” He spun back around and got in Cassak’s face, the fool captain who’d caused this mess and nearly got Darsal killed.

“Marak, we’ll—”

“Get out of my sight, and get me answers,” Marak growled. He shoved Cassak toward the door. “We’re moving out. Now.”

He swerved back around and surveyed the damage.

Darsal remained. She eyed his sword. “You want my help?”

Marak drew a breath, simmering. “I want you to pack up.”

“Marak, don’t be stubborn. Not now.”

He sheathed his sword and started for the door.

“They’re
my
friends, my general,” she growled.

“You’ll get yourself killed. Wait here.”

“Mar—”

“I said wait here, Rona!”

Awkward silence slashed through the room.

“My name is Darsal.”

His jaw tightened.

“What are you going to do?” Darsal snapped. “Storm Sucrow’s temple? At least if they kill me, it’s no big—”

“I need someone here,” he barked. “Wait for the messenger; then find Cassak and tell him I’m going to kill that priest.”

“Good riddance.” Darsal followed him out the door and snaked her hand around his waist, toward his knife.

He grabbed her wrist. For a second they both stood still. All the fury drained out of him and turned to . . .

Something else. He pulled the knife toward himself, both their hands still wrapped around it. Darsal was almost touching his chest.

“Let me go with you.”

Marak uncurled her fingers from the weapon and slid it into a sheath, then turned for the door. “That priest
will
kill you.”

Darsal started after him again. He turned sharply, and she ran into him. He held her at arm’s length. “Don’t follow me.”

“I have to. Elyon’s orders.”

Hating himself, Marak shoved her into the room and forced the door shut before she could yank it open again, then locked it.

“Post a guard,” he barked at the warrior coming to his aid. “She doesn’t leave. Secure the premises, and prepare to move out. And fetch me a scout.”

six

D
arsal waited until Marak was long gone. She stewed and tried not to think about what might be happening to Johnis and Silvie. Or what could possibly have caused such a fight between general and captain. This whole mess was taxing on everyone. Marak had clearly lost his mind.

Serve the mission. She loved the Horde, and she loved Marak. How loving them could help anything, how that would serve Elyon’s purposes, she wasn’t sure. Yet.

But Elyon made the Horde, and he loved them, wanted them, as badly as the albinos.

Finally, she could wait no longer. “You have another thing coming if you think I’m staying in here, my general.”

She studied the room and took in the contents. Since the building had never been intended for a barrack, there was little to work with.

Marak’s men had sealed the windows when Johnis and Silvie were quartered here. And aside from a long candle stand or a torch, there was little in the way of weapons. And the guard wouldn’t likely fall for a trick.

Darsal eyed the window, considered breaking out the bars. No, too much time.

The torches were still unlit, though. If she used one, the place would go up in flames too quickly. Instead Darsal scooted the candle stand right next to the curtains over the window, lit it, stood back, and watched them smoke.

The flame caught.

She ran for the door. “Fire!”

“LET HER ALONE,” JOHNIS SNARLED. EVERYTHING WAS A HAZE. He drew a ragged breath. Silvie couldn’t die.
Shaeda, help me. Together we can kill him now!

“Entice me not,”
the entity growled in his ear.

“More important, you will do as I tell you, or I guarantee she won’t outlive the hour.” Sucrow took the knife from his servant and traced the tip along Silvie’s throat. She didn’t move.

Johnis saw no way out. Not with Silvie one flick of the wrist from death.

She caught his eyes and gave a slight nod, meaning for him to let her die. Let her go. Save himself, take revenge later. They could not kill the priest yet. Shaeda didn’t trust herself to not kill him if she unleashed.

Johnis sagged and let out a soft groan. “Will you let her live if I promise not to defy you?” He spoke the words out loud. Of course, he still had his private thoughts of unlocking the keys to her power and keeping them—apart from her.

Darkness and fog descended, a thunderstorm on the torrent of fire. Johnis felt the abyss of failing Shaeda—her punishment, her whipping—conquer his inner rebellion.

“Josef,” Silvie warned, her eyes half-closed.

Shaeda’s punishment grew more insistent: Finish the mission. Regardless of cost. Even at the cost of Silvie.

Even if it meant an alliance with the priest.

“The mission holds greater weight. We require the priest’s knowledge.”

So she could restrain her passions, when she chose. Her hate she held at bay, knowing the result of the mission would bring far greater satisfaction than killing him now to save Silvie.

“Only as long as you do as you’re told.” Sucrow played with the blade resting against Silvie’s neck. Revulsion snaked down Johnis’s spine, twisting his face in disgust. Of course the priest would think Johnis was talking to him.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Silvie whispered, pulling away from the priest, her voice low and devoid of emotion.

The door burst open. Darsal stood on the threshold, wielding a long silver candle stand, her cowl once more over her face.

Sucrow curled his lip. “Stay out of this, albino.”

She came between Johnis and Sucrow, inching toward the altar. Johnis took advantage of the slave’s entrance and managed to stagger to his feet with his arms at his sides.

The albino joined Sucrow at the altar. She hesitated with her makeshift club.

“Put that down,” Sucrow ordered the slave. His hand opened, palm stretched out toward her, fingers curled. Darsal was suddenly flung against the wall. Her weapon clattered to the ground. She didn’t move.

A guard went for her.

Shaeda, we have to get out of here. Now.

Johnis drew a sharp breath. “I will take you there, and I will do what you will. But if you kill her, I will come after you.” He met Sucrow’s eyes. “And then I will kill you.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make threats.”