Lunatic (10 page)

And not any different than what Billos had done for her.

"We can't abandon Darsal."

She faced him. "What good are we to Darsal if we're Horde? Honestly, do you think we can make it? Get back to Middle, find Darsal, rescue her if she's captive, then go in search of water, all before the disease turns us stupid?"

"You have a point," Johnis conceded.

But the notion of leaving Darsal behind sat like a brick in his gut. Assuming Darsal was anywhere near Middle.

Unlikely.

Unless she was captive.

The brick started to rot. Acidic poison worked its way into his chest and throat.

He had to get to the desert.

He had to get to Darsal.

His heart was tearing in two.

"We have to find water before we-"

"We have to keep our word first," Johnis snapped. "Then we go for the desert." Into the desert. "And we find out if this woman is for real or not."

"You mean `water.' You're not using your head."

"No, I'm following my heart." Johnis stood. "We go back and we look. Then ... then we find water."

ou don't know if you're a Scab?" Jordan spoke after another hour or so. His tears had dried. Her story had at least temporarily distracted him from whatever the Scabs were doing to his wife. His voice was stronger.

The increasing pain to her joints and skin and the stiffness served as a haunting reminder of her predicament. So far no cracks, but the agony brutalized her.

"It's too difficult to explain." She tucked herself back under the cloak, her only solace from the chafing disease. "I don't understand any of this. Where is everyone? Why are the Scabs ruling Middle? What happened to everyone? Where is Thomas? And this nonsense about not turning?"

Xedan drew a breath. "The Horde took over Middle a long time ago. We don't know where the others are. We were separated from them ourselves."

"Grandfather and I drowned with Thomas. Rona, a few months later. Things got out of control. The Horde had gone on an albino hunting spree. The Circle split into groups to keep from being annihilated and went deep. Very, very deep ..."

Darsal nodded. "If you were caught, you couldn't reveal the others."

Pain flashed across Jordan's face.

"No," he said. "We couldn't. We have a rendezvous point in the ..." He hesitated and glanced toward the guard, then looked at Darsal. "That is, Jordan of Southern is far from home. And if the sun kisses the sky he'll meet Jordan last."

Darsal thought the riddle out. The sun kissed the sky in the east...

"Our band was small," Xedan offered. "And close to Middle."

"Strategically placed," Jordan reminded him.

"You weren't with the others," Darsal noted.

Jordan's expression turned grim. "I was leading a smaller group. A decoy to keep the Horde away from the main body of the Circle." He fell quiet, then continued. "A month ago we were routed. Fifty of ours were taken, Rona included. Grandfather, three others, and I helped them escape. Only Rona was recaptured," Jordan said, eyes flashing. His normally amiable expression turned wicked. "I couldn't leave her." He shook, struggling not to lose composure.

Xedan's gaze returned to Darsal. "We all have our price, so it seems."

"Drowning," Darsal repeated.

The pain from the disease was like many teeth and claws chewing all over her body, ravenous predators tearing and fighting over her flesh. She'd seen a pack of hyenas do that once, and the picture resurfaced now.

"Your wounds bother you?" Xedan asked. "You've taken quite a beating-two in less than twenty-four hours."

The gash on her arm from fighting the Scab. She'd almost forgotten. It did hurt, but now she'd never notice.

A dry, humorless laugh snorted out of her. She winced. "Elyon's angry with me."

Her voice was raspy, dry. She coughed.

"The Horde's taken over, you say. The others ... dead or hiding? Or Scab?"

"No." Jordan's voice came out small and weak, so he cleared it and started over. "No. But listen to me, Darsal. Listen to me. I'll tell you what happened if you promise to listen. The Circle, those who drowned in the red lakes, followers of Elyon, are hunted by the Horde. We drown to find life and spend it as outcasts. Your choice in this world is to live as Horde or die as followers of Elyon."

He paused.

"And let me tell you, dying is the better choice by far."

The Books of History hadn't killed her.

So now the disease would.

Or the very water that Elyon once used to heal them.

A door rattled open and torchlight poured into the hall. Darsal squeezed her eyes shut and risked the pain to curl up tighter. Her body screamed in protest, making her whimper.

"Stand up," the guard ordered. The others started shuffling. Darsal didn't move. The Scab rattled her cage door. "Stand up!"

She stirred, quivering. The gash on her arm throbbed and a vein pounded against her temple. She staggered to her feet, ignoring the onslaught of pain and what felt like at least three broken ribs.

Xedan and Jordan were already on their feet.

Darsal grabbed a bar and pulled herself the rest of the way up. Dry blood crackled on her lip and nose.

Her right knee popped, caving on her.

Cursing, she gripped the metal tighter, holding herself upright. Her whole body felt swollen twice its normal size and incredibly heavy. Her skull outweighed an elephant.

This wasn't the guard. He was a little older than Jordan and had an officer's insignia. General.

Marak.

The Scab gave them each a chunk of bread, a piece of fruit, and water in a skin.

"What do you want?" she asked.

But he wasn't interested in her. He went to Jordan's cage and stopped in front of him. The two men regarded each other. Darsal sensed a history there. Enemies of long standing, equally matched in strength and cunning, and a high respect and knowledge of the other.

Jordan kept his arms loose, refusing to pull on the shackles, fists knotting. Shoulders back, chin level with the guard's. It wasn't anger or even hate in his eyes, though.

It was sorrow. An unyielding, broken grief, oppressing the whole room.

Marak's gaze, however, had nothing but bitterness and scorn. And perhaps the kind of pity that comes when you think a person is hopelessly deceived and there's nothing left to be done about it.

And now Darsal could see the men's resemblance to one another. Marak's scaly white skin made it difficult, but he and the old man and Jordan had similar builds, similar expressions.

They looked related.

Jordan drew his lips tightly together. "I won't change my mind."

"This can end." Marak put his hands up on the bars. His chalky gray eyes stared at the slightly smaller, younger prisoner. His voice was low, deep. "Just tell me where they are.,,

"It could end if you would allow it." Jordan's chin lowered, then rose again to Marak. "Don't let Qurong turn you into a coward."

"You're the coward."

Jordan flinched. He looked once more at Marak. "If you say so."

"Sucrow is forcing my hand."

"Sucrow. Are you blind, Marak?" Jordan's fists knotted. "I hope you're enjoying this." He thrust a finger at Rona. "Open your eyes."

Marak scowled and wouldn't look down at the woman. "I won't enjoy watching you die." But he glanced toward the door, afraid the guard might overhear.

"But you'll be there. You'll do nothing and stand there while we're-"

A sharp look from Xedan cut him off.

"It's better than watching the disease take you," Marak whispered at last. He glanced at Xedan, then Rona, and back to Jordan. "Now that I can't watch."

"Why are you here?" Jordan repeated.

"It won't be much longer. Qurong is putting Sucrow over my head."

Silence. Jordan's lips pressed tight.

Marak caught Darsal's stare and returned it for a long beat, then he broke away and walked into the darkness. The door clanged shut.

"DEFINITELY HEADED SOUTH," CASSAK MUSED. HE AND Warryn lay on their stomachs on an overhang, observing through a spyglass the ten men they knew to be the Eramite half-breeds. All on horseback. All armed.

"Order your men to attack now."

"Patience. The priest may be in command, but you are not him. We don't need a second front."

Admittedly, the temptation to take out the rebels while they were so close and unaware was strong.

But his orders were to keep the peace.

"Bloody rabble-rouser," Warryn muttered.

Eram had lured about a third of their people into the northwest desert shortly after the drowning incident, two years and two generals ago.

"There's a reason he was demoted."

The renegade general's rebellion started as mere disagreement. To him, the albinos, in their pacifist state, were more a distraction than a threat. Insult to injury, Eram was sick of the many restrictions half-breeds endured.

"He's a traitor."

"Not to many."

"Irrelevant."

Marak had warned Qurong not to push the matter and had warned Eram not to do anything rash, but neither had listened. Eram simply packed up his followers and his belongings and left Middle. Every last one of them former Forest Guard, with Guard training and knowledge.

Both sides had exchanged words and idle threats, but neither was ready to move to war. Eram was outnumbered, but he was a force with which to be reckoned.

Marak had neither time nor patience for any of it. Neither did Cassak, for that matter.

Eram's men continued their march, unaware.

"What do the scouts say?"

Warryn didn't respond.

"What do-"

The throater had remounted and was starting down the hillside toward the rebels. Cassak swore. "Bloody fool ..."

He hurried after Warryn and cut him off, breaking between the throater and the startled rebel scouts.

"Let them pass," Cassak warned, sword half-drawn.

Warryn snarled. "Do not-"

Cassak's sword rang out. He pressed the tip at Warryn's neck. "I will cut you down now if you detain them."

Long pause.

"You," Cassak ordered the rebels, "take a message to your general. Tell him this man was in dereliction of duty and that we do not wish a fight. Now go."

He released Warryn. "Marak will be waiting."

thought you said this was a shortcut."