Lunatic (2 page)

lmost a day had passed. Twilight now fell over the horizon. Curling smoke still wafted heavenward, blocking the stars. A cool breeze drove the lingering stench of burning debris away from them.

Darsal sat across from Silvie, knees to her chest. Before her were the seven books, neatly lined up in a row between the girls. Two black ones were stacked on top of each other. Beside them, the green. Next, purple. Red. And then the blue and brown stacked together.

The seven Books of History. Recovered at last.

Her face was still damp, tears mixing with soot.

"Are you ready?" Johnis's soft voice came from behind Darsal. Then his hand touched her shoulder, and he crouched between her and Silvie.

He pocketed two books, placed a third in front of him, and drew his knife. "Darsal, it's time to go home. To Middle." He smiled. "It's over. You'll see. No more books. We won."

The last time he'd asked her to slit her finger, they'd been stolen away by seven accursed bundles of paper and leather, bound with twine. Sucked through time into a world of cars and airplanes and vampires and terrible betrayal.

Of nightmare and sorrow.

Of misery and cruel sacrifice.

"It feels more a reckoning than triumph."

"We saved the world, Darsal," Johnis said. "We did it. You did it."

"Mission accomplished." Darsal tried to scoff but couldn't. She couldn't help staring at the books. "Back. Back to what?"

Johnis and Silvie kept quiet. Let her talk.

"It's been a long time for me," she said, aware of the tension in her voice. "A bit unnerving."

They both watched her. Waiting. For hours. Johnis refused to touch the books until she was ready. And they'd been far beyond patient.

It was long past time.

"We'll be with you, Darsal," Silvie said. "We'll return heroes."

Darsal nodded. She picked up one of the books, eased it into her waistband, and set another in front of her. Silvie did the same.

Now all three knelt with a single book before them.

Darsal slit her index finger with her blade. Johnis and Silvie cut theirs in unison. Johnis drew a loud breath. Grinned.

"You'll come to the wedding, Darsal, won't you?"

A forced smile. "I wouldn't miss it."

He winked at her and traded an amused look with Silvie, then held his finger a fraction of an inch off the leathery cover of his book. Silvie's hand snaked over his a second behind.

"For Elyon," he said.

Darsal's hand shot out and pressed against the cover of her book. "For Elyon."

'm growing weary of your incompetence, Marak." Qurong stormed around the perimeter of the conference room, gray eyes ablaze. Long dreadlocks and black and red robes flapped about the supreme commander's tall, powerful frame. Morst-a white paste meant to soothe the painful burning, mute the stench, and conceal the lesions covering his skin-was beginning to crack with his temper.

"With respect, my lord, this situation was unceremoniously dumped in my lap. It's taken eighteen months to undo the mistakes of my predecessor with regards to Eram, and in the meantime I've spent eight months putting together plans to annihilate the albinos, plans that merely await my final transcription and your approval."

Marak stood with his hands at the small of his back, impatient for his commander to complete his tirade. He wanted out of the conference room, with its pungent mix of morst, sweat, and curling smoke.

"Tell me something: what would General Martyn have thought of your pitiful excuses?" Qurong demanded. Martyn had been a longtime general under Qurong, a turncoat from among the albinos years ago. He'd been cunning enough to put Thomas Hunter's skills to the test.

But that was five years and five generals ago.

"Respectfully, sir, General Martyn would not have approved the complete elimination of the albinos at all."

"His only vice. Regardless, your inefficiency would have met with his severe displeasure. My generals remain on the downslide. Unfortunately for you, my patience is thin. So enough of these pathetic, cowardly attempts to dodge responsibility. I highly doubt the escape of fifty albinos was the result of a dead man. Perhaps I will require another torch."

Marak momentarily froze. The last general Qurong had "demoted" had burned. Marak eyed the two lit torches mounted on six-foot poles and tried not to think too long about what might have taken place. Nor what the priest Sucrow had done before dragging the corpse to his thrall to use for his black arts. Marak had never cared to ask for any of the details.

"What do you think, General?"

He looked past Qurong, past the two narrow steps leading to a small landing that contained Qurong's chair, past the dark wood and thick purple cushion, and through the open window that overlooked Middle Lake, toward Sucrow's thrall.

"I don't think that will be necessary, my lord."

"Just as you've not found it necessary to execute the vermin when I tell you to?"

Marak balked. Two weeks ago they had rounded up fifty albinos, among them his sister-in-law and his grandfather. His captain had suggested setting up a trap to catch Jordan of Southern, who happened to be Marak's brother.

Jordan had come running for his wife. Most of the prisoners had escaped. Marak's family had been recaptured.

"With respect, sir, they may have informa-"

"You've had more than enough time to interrogate and execute the mongrels. Sucrow, tell me, how difficult is it to kill an albino, his wench, and an old man?"

"Killing them is swift and simple." Sucrow stood tall and thin in his black cowl and pointed hood. "It's keeping them alive that's the art form." Sucrow cackled. Narrow, piercing gray eyes drilled Marak with a malignant glower.

Marak's eyes narrowed. "Priest ..."

"Go on," Qurong prompted. He received twisted pleasure from stirring up the rivalry between his general and his priest.

"Perhaps there is something the general does not wish us to know."

"Enlighten me, Priest," Qurong said.

"The general can't seem to remember that a dead relative is a dead relative," Sucrow taunted.

Marak curled his fist.

"Though I am enjoying the exclusive use of them in our ceremonies," Sucrow finished. "And Teeleh is well pleased with the woman."

The priest's hatred of albinos ran deeper than any tie to kin. He would kill relatives who accumulated the disease. Slowly.

And what he could do to an albino would make anyone's insides curdle.

"Is that so?" Qurong asked, leering.

Marak fought to keep control of his temper. He had no desire to execute his own blood. But even though Qurong himself had once hesitated on a matter of family, he didn't expect the supreme commander to consider this the same situation.

Hesitation never boded well.

And he had hesitated too long.

"It seems the priest is better suited for this than the general. Tell me something, Marak," Qurong continued. "Is it that you are incapable of catching albinos or that you are unwilling to catch albinos?"

"My lord, the Desecration will eliminate all of the albinos, including the prisoners wasting dungeon space." Marak cut himself off before he could add that ultimate loyalty to his supreme commander held his brother, sister-in-law, and grandfather in a dungeon.

Qurong waved him to silence. "Whatever you're doing blustering around in an office in Middle obviously isn't working. I don't understand the difficulty of a few diseased, smoothskinned rats."

Marak bit his tongue. Thomas Hunter's Circle were diseased, not simpletons. Quite the opposite, in fact, they were a crafty lot who retained all the brilliance they'd possessed before the Horde had defeated them and pushed all who refused to join them into the desert. They were called "albinos" because of their smooth skin, not for any lack of intelligence.

"You said you trained under Martyn. Was that a lie?"

Marak refused to react to Qurong's baiting. "Certainly not, my lord."

"Did Martyn fail to teach you adequately? Was he too lenient on you? Or did he teach you to love albinos?" Qurong spat, lip curling into a sneer.

"General Martyn was more than adequate during my training with him, Commander."

"Then why are you wasting both my time and Sucrow's men? You've been using his serpent warriors for ten months and now you hesitate like a coward."

Serpent warriors. Sucrow's own private army, a religious faction with fangs. Most called them "throaters," a term incorporated almost two years ago that referred to warriors who kept tally of their kills and reveled in bloodlust and glory.

Eighteen months of penance for his predecessors' idiocy.

Eight months of working on a plan to systematically finish off the enemy.

Naught but accusations of treachery and cowardice for his reward.

Marak held his tongue. A lesser man than Qurong would find a blade in his gut. "I find albinos as distasteful as you do, sir."

"Then what exactly is your current strategy? As far as I can tell, it is nothing but throaters and warriors chasing shadows in the south desert, pretending to do their duties and making a mockery of you. Is it that, Marak? Can you not control your own men? Do the servants of a priest terrify you? Or do you plan on undermining me?"

Sucrow's serpent warriors were brutal.

Efficient and precise, though.

"The men are under my control, sir. I've spent months completing plans to bring to you for approval. Our plans for bringing Eram in without a fight have been tabled upon your request."

Qurong had no business pretending to know what went on in the field. The old man hadn't fought in battle in years and left men like Marak to do the grunt work.

"Well, then," Qurong taunted. "Let's hear your plan, General."

Marak bit back his proud smile. Shortly after Martyn's departure, Marak had come across his war journal. The details had proven fascinating. He'd devoted himself to study, and by the time he had been made general, he had learned enough to know a few new tricks to killing albinos more efficiently.

His brother had once said the Circle would never crack, nor be desecrated-his words verbatim. Marak had chosen the mission's name from his younger brother's declaration.