Lunatic (3 page)

"There are two stages to Desecration, my lord. My men have studied their movements and place them in the northwest desert. I have hunters out there as we speak, searching out the vermin."

He'd followed his little brother closely enough to put them in the northwest desert. Knew they were somewhere in canyons or mountains. Knew as soon as he found a red lake, the albinos were only days from discovery. From annihilation.

Time. All he needed was time.

And if Jordan didn't break down and tell them where the Circle was, Marak would simply orchestrate his "escape" and let his little brother lead the scouts directly to them. Cruel, but necessary.

"Phase one is almost complete," Marak explained. "We've spent the last few months developing a poison that will only affect those with the disease. It causes open sores on their skins, an infection that spreads like fire over dried grass. The albinos have something in their skin that the poison attacks. We are immune to it. It's only a matter of days before we find the exact location of the Circle. We've also managed to make it available in several forms. Any exposure is lethal. I-"

"Enough." Qurong paced away from Marak, fist knotting around his sword. "I want results, Marak. You began with a thousand. And yet, despite your attempts, they keep taking our people and forcing them into these rites of theirs. Despite your assurances and your talk of victory, you have, in fact, only captured two hundred and some. Not even half of the estimated number."

"My lord-" Marak bit back a curse. Would Qurong ever let him finish?

"And this last incident alone should be enough to order your execution. Fifty albinos don't just waltz out of their cages and disappear. I'd love to hear how you managed that one. Or do you intend to blame the rebels?"

His brother had somehow set them free. Marak still wasn't sure how Jordan had pulled it off The youth had knowingly walked into a trap, freed fifty men, women-including his own wife-and children, and been captured only because he wouldn't leave his wife behind, and their grandfather wouldn't leave Jordan behind.

Marak would never confess that, though.

"The culprit is being interrogated and dealt with as we speak, Commander. I assure you-"

"I will be assured of nothing, Marak!" Qurong spun around to face him, finger jabbing at him. "Martyn assured me he would kill the albinos, and his assurance was but hollow boasting! Woref assured me he would rout out the mongrels, and it amounted to nothing! When that failed, Rowen came, assuring me he would starve them out, and he was dead within two months! And now you think you and Sucrow's pack of throaters can round them up and systematically kill them when they're nowhere to be found?"

"Commander, it will take time, but I insist-"

Qurong struck Marak to the ground with the flat of his sword. Marak hit hard, landing on elbows and palms, surprised at the strength the much older man still possessed.

"I've lost one child to this devilish sorcery, Marak, and I will not lose another!"

Marak got up, fire rising in his chest. Still, he kept his voice even, considered his words before speaking. "Many have lost loved ones to the albinos, Commander, respectfully. But know that our best efforts are going into this. Mind, body, soul, our highest priority is Desecration."

Qurong closed the distance between them in two long strides, grabbed Marak by the collar, and pulled their faces close. "I want those albinos dead. All of them, no excuses. And since you can't seem to do the job yourself, not only will you be taking Sucrow's help, you will report to him."

Marak bit back something rash. Sucrow was listening with his silent gloating, his eternal sneer plastered on his face, and it drove Marak mad. Over his dead body would he take orders from a priest.

"My lord, there is no need-"

"Do you require further penalty, General?"

Marak braced himself, swallowed his pride. "No, my lord."

"You had better hope not, General."

arsal's eyes flew open. She lay half on her back, half on her left shoulder. Silvie whispered to her, strong hand shaking her to consciousness.

"You hit your head." Silvie's voice was breathy, barely audible.

Right in Darsal's ear.

A crack of light penetrated through a hole in the floor and one window. Dim yellow beams revealed a low, slanted ceiling. Outside the window were spindly brown tree branches, filtering down to two large trunks.

Dust filled her nostrils. An attic.

The rank morning breath of someone's ragged, heavy breathing sounded in her ears. Johnis, his face only inches from hers, peered through a crack. He was shaking, face white and taut, lip firmly clenched between his teeth. The light shone across his straining brown eye, making it gleam like a fish's, huge and round.

Darsal smelled the familiar stench of rotting meat. She gasped and rolled into a crouch.

"Shh!" One of Silvie's hands clamped on her shoulder, the other over her mouth, trembling. The slender blonde pulled Darsal backward and forced her onto what felt like a wooden crate against her legs and beneath her rump.

Silvie was cold and stiff. With one hand she still clutched Darsal's shoulder. With the other she now covered her nose and mouth. "We're-we're here." She stifled a sneeze, red faced and looking somewhat sick, as if allergic to something in their little prison.

Darsal was glad she had not returned alone. But knowing that didn't alleviate the tension. Even ten years hadn't spoiled that smell. Horde. The Horde stench was making Silvie nauseated.

"Where is here?" Darsal tried to take in the attic space. She'd hoped they would arrive in Middle, where Johnis grew up. Where Thomas Hunter lived and where they were heroes among the Forest Guard, just like Silvie and Johnis promised.

Instead they were in an attic just above a pack of Scabs.

The space was only about eight feet wide, with an uneven ceiling possibly seven feet high at the zenith and as short as five feet at its lowest point. Dust particles drifted along in the light. Brooms, boxes, and rope littered the small workspace.

Johnis didn't budge from the hole in the floor. Half-panicked.

"Johnis," Darsal hissed. When he didn't move, she shoved him aside and peered through the hole.

She saw what looked like an odd-shaped war room. The top of an old Scab's head shone white and round beneath them. He was screaming at a young officer who wore tan and reddish yellow. Desert colors. The officer looked dirty, as if he'd just come from a fight, from what Darsal could see.

A third stood near a torch, covered by a pointed black hood.

She nearly bolted through the ceiling.

"Qurong!" Johnis reeled back. "Qurong. And I-I know ... I know where we are."

Qurong and his new priest and his new general all in one place.

A knot formed in Darsal's throat. Elyon. Why are we less than ten feet from Scabs? Is this your idea of a joke? "Then that means-"

Johnis darted for the window, kicking up attic debris. Silvie snatched at him, wild-eyed herself. He fought her, bent on the window.

"Johnis!" Silvie hissed, pinning one arm. "Quiet!"

Below them, all conversation stopped. Darsal imagined them gawking at the ceiling, eyes fixed on the small hole above them.

Johnis, Silvie, and Darsal didn't dare breathe.

"What's that sound?" Qurong asked.

Pause.

"General, continue."

And Darsal knew. Knew from Johnis's reaction to the mere layout of the room beneath them. Still, she had to see it to believe it. She climbed toward the window, on tiptoe so she wouldn't make any sound, and peered out. Her heart sank into her boots.

From this vantage point she could see where the Gatherings in Middle used to be, the expansive gardens and tree groves, and the lake.

The lake, once pristine and clear.

Now muddy and brown.

Scab children played along the banks, and Scab warriors guarded the lush terrain.

Silvie pushed up beside her, ducked her head low so no one looking up would see.

Darsal's gaze roved beyond the muddy banks, along the bridge that spanned the now-muddy Middle Lake, and to the opposite shore.

Fan-shaped, narrow steps rose out of the water and up to a portico that led to a pair of brass-overlaid doors with two entwined, winged serpents and an incense altar. The doors opened into a dome-topped temple.

Sucrow's thrall.

"Desecration is finally coming into play, my lord. We're putting out a sizable reward for any albino brought in. None dare set foot outside the desert."

"I remain unimpressed."

Choking back bile, Darsal motioned Johnis to come up beside her to look at Middle Forest, once beautiful and glorious with vibrant-colored flowers and a crystalline lake. Where night after night the warriors danced and celebrated life, where unions and passings were held with gusto, and where food and wine came in generous proportion.

Her beckoning wasn't too different from asking him to identify a loved one's corpse. Johnis's soft brown eyes turned on her. Trembling, he obeyed in slow motion and came up on her left.

"With all due respect, sir, I'm fully capa-"

"I didn't ask your opinion, Marak."

"My house used to be there." Johnis pointed down the road as far as they could see, northward. He clearly wasn't hearing the conversation below.

Darsal gave Silvie a worried look.

"Johnis ..." Silvie reached around Darsal and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him between them. "It's ..."

"Middle."

CASSAK GALLOPED UP THE DUST-COVERED WESTERN ROAD. His foam-flecked horse trembled beneath him, anxious to stop. Marak wanted him keeping close watch on Eram's forces. The half-breeds.

Sucrow wanted him checking in with the albino hunting parties.

And thanks to being forced to do both, he was late to Warryn's interrogation.

Disloyalty to Sucrow meant disloyalty to Qurong.

Disloyalty to Sucrow was the price of his loyalty to General Marak.

But even Marak couldn't argue against the fact that it was more important to handle Eram and the hunting parties, to protect everyone from the albino disease, than it was to try to protect Marak's little brother.

Maybe.

Albinos were already dead.

Marak needed to remember that.

The temple was directly ahead. Cassak rode up and swung down almost before the beast beneath him came to a complete halt.

His servant snatched the reins. His scout knelt before him, then stood in salute.

"Report," Cassak ordered. "Make it quick."

"The throater took him over an hour ago," his scout reported, referring to Warryn, chief of the "serpent warriors," the throaters, and the albino prisoner Jordan of Southern, Marak's younger brother.

Cassak started marching, forcing the scout to run to catch up.

He and Sucrow had a deal. Sucrow got the woman for his rituals. The throaters got to practice their skills on all three.

And Marak didn't have to execute the three.

Yet.

Marak would likely change his mind if he knew what Sucrow was doing.

"Over an hour?" Cassak snapped. He turned on the scout. "And you're only now telling me this?"

"You were occupied, Captain, I didn't want to intrude-"

"When I tell you to inform me of a throater's dealings," Cassak growled, "it is always first priority! Do you understand me?"

The scout drew up on himself but didn't cower. Oh no, he wouldn't cower. But he knew well that Cassak had punished warriors severely for less.

"I'll deal with you later. Finish the report before I change my mind."

"Qurong's furious over the albinos. He's forcing the general to report to the priest."

Cassak swore. He had half a mind to go run the priest through just for spite. Could too.

Loyalty. His general's mantra.

Loyalty to his supreme commander before all else.

Loyalty to his general second.

He carried no loyalty toward the priest.

"Captain ..."

"Water the horse. I've a throater to kill."