Green: The Beginning and the End (8 page)

“Of course,” the priest said, turning back. He’d lifted a small scroll from his desk and held it in his clawed hands. “I make no accusation. You’ll understand soon enough. But I do need an answer.”

Qurong spat to one side and made no attempt to coat his words with anything other than the sentiment that swelled in his mind.

“If I could do it personally, I would run my sword through every albino who still breathes.”

A faint grin crossed Ba’al’s face. “And the drowning?”

“It is defiance of my reign and all that we hold sacred. The twisted ways of Thomas would drown all of the Horde and tear down this very Thrall. I would rather drown in a bath of poison.”

“How dare you put him through this?” Patricia challenged. His wife’s solidarity reminded Qurong why he loved her as he did.

“Just a reminder of who our enemies are. The Eramites, yes, but Thomas and his Circle are the true scourge of our world.”

“I don’t need your lectures,” Qurong said. “And don’t underestimate Eram or his army. They are growing faster than we are, and they don’t hide like the albinos do. I would think that should concern you.”

“I assure you, Teeleh’s enemies are albino, not Horde. They will be easily disposed of when the time is right.”

Qurong couldn’t take this line any farther without casting suspicion on his allegiance. “I bow to Teeleh’s judgment.” He dipped his head.

“Then drink to him,” Ba’al said, picking up a chalice next to the goat’s head. “Swallow the goat’s blood offered to the dragon, and I will tell you how he will give you your enemies on a butcher block.” He glided across the floor and held out the silver goblet, sloshing with red blood.

Qurong took the cup, aware that his hand was still shaking from being accused of such treason, never mind that it was only insinuated. He lifted the vessel to his lips and drank deep. The familiar taste of raw blood flooded his mouth and warmed his belly.

Ba’al had instituted the drinking of blood, claiming that the spirit of Teeleh, indeed the very offspring of Teeleh, came by blood. Indeed, the Shataiki were asexual beings, neither male nor female. They reproduced through blood.

Teeleh was served by twelve queens, it was said, like the queens of beehives. But they and their minions were genderless and passed their seed through blood when they bit the larvae produced by the queens. Ba’al sometimes referred to a queen as a she and sometimes as a he, but to Qurong’s way of thinking, all of it was nonsense.

Shataiki were simply beasts.

Regardless, the taste had agreed with most Scabs, including Qurong. It settled the pain and itching in their flaking skin for several hours and now eased the gnawing in his belly. Unfortunately, there were more than three million Horde now living in seven forests, and there was only so much blood, making it a valuable commodity controlled by the temples.

He drained the cup. “For Teeleh, my lord and my master,” he recited, and shoved the goblet back at Ba’al. “Do not test me again, priest.”

The dark priest handed him the scroll.

“What is this?”

“A message that came to me an hour ago. Read it.”

Qurong unrolled the stained paper and stared at the top. This was a communiqué from . . . the circular emblem at the top bore into his mind. His eyes dropped to the bottom and he saw the name:
Thomas of Hunter
.

“Yes,” Ba’al sneered. “He shows his face after all these years.”

“Who?” Patricia demanded.

“Thomas of Hunter,” the priest said.

The spoken name seemed to rob the room of its energy. Patricia kept silent. Qurong’s heart slowly doubled its pace. The last communication with anyone among the albino leadership had come three months after Chelise’s departure, when Qurong declared open war on the albinos. Ba’al’s Throaters and his elite guard had rounded up over a thousand since, but not one among the original leaders. They’d gone into deep hiding.

He stepped closer to the torches on the wall behind him and read the writing on the paper:

And Ba’al, Dark Priest of Teeleh, Shataiki from Hell

Greetings from the Circle, followers of Elyon dead to the disease and risen with hope for the return of Elyon, who will destroy all that is evil and remake all that is good.

Ten years have passed and still you relentlessly persecute my people, falsely believing that we have meant ill toward the diseased Scabs whom you rule. We have not waged war on your people, though we have the capacity to do so. We have not burned your crops, nor robbed your caravans, nor harmed you in any way. Still you pursue us deep into the desert and slay us where you find us.

It is in our best interests to end this. I therefore cast before you a challenge:

Take a contingent of your most revered and unholy priests and meet me at the high place with Qurong and his armed guard. I will present myself with three of my most trusted followers. No more. There, at Ba’al Bek, we will know the truth.

If Elyon refuses to show his power over Teeleh, then I, Thomas Hunter, who lead the Circle, will surrender myself and the location of every tribe known to me, and you may be rid of the albinos once and for all. They will either renounce their drowning and become Horde or die by your hand.

If Teeleh refuses to show his power over Elyon, then you, Qurong, and you alone will drown and become albino.

If you betray me and conspire to kill me before the terms of this agreement are met in full, then you will have martyrs in Thomas of Hunter and three of his trusted followers. I await you at Ba’al Bek.

Thomas of Hunter

“What does the traitor want?” his wife demanded.

“He’s issued a challenge. A duel of sorts between his god and Ba’al. At Ba’al Bek, the high place.”

“For what purpose?”

Qurong turned to Ba’al. “What am I supposed to make of this madness?”

“What madness?” Patricia snapped. She pulled the scroll from his fingers and read.

Qurong ignored her. “Can your god do what he challenges?”

“My god? Teeleh is the only true god, and he’s yours as well as mine. Or do you falter so easily after a few words from your nemesis?”

Ba’al clearly saw an opportunity here. That a challenge from a group of scattered vagabonds should be taken seriously was by itself humiliating. But that this simple challenge, however misguided, should unnerve him was unforgivable. Who did Thomas of Hunter think he was, issuing such a foolish challenge?

Qurong’s gut clenched with pain and he walked to the table, where a flask of wine sat next to two silver glasses.

“You called me out of my sleepless dreams for this?”

“If you don’t mind . . .” Cassak, his general, now held the scroll. “If this is true, if the leader of all albinos is foolish enough to wait for us at Ba’al Bek, we could easily end his life. And the lives of his three followers. Even Chelise, if she is with him.”

Patricia glared at him. She still clung to the imprudent belief that she might one day recover a daughter. Cassak was a fool not to understand the way of a woman’s heart. He would have to talk with the man.

“Killing Thomas is no easy proposition. Even if he could be taken or killed, he’s right; he would be seen as a martyr and replaced by another dozen like him. He’s mocking us with this letter.”

“Is he?” Ba’al said.

“You suggest we take this seriously?”

“You doubt that I can destroy him in this little game of his?” Ba’al returned.

“I don’t know. Can you?”

There was the real question, he realized. He’d betrayed his own doubts in Teeleh’s power by asking it.

“Have you seen the evidence of Elyon lately?” Ba’al asked. “No, because there are no angels named Roush nor a god named Elyon. These are the figments of the albinos’ imagination. The red waters they drink infect them with a disease that bares their skin and fries their minds. We all know this to be the case.”

“And if you’re wrong? If Teeleh, who isn’t too eager to show his face either, doesn’t show up and crush them, then what? I drink their red water? Have you lost your mind?”

“Unlike you, I see Teeleh frequently. Trust me, he is as real as your own scabbing flesh. Don’t you see it? Thomas of Hunter is playing into our hands. The red dragon who rules the seven horns will devour this albino child and end the time of the Circle once and for all. Your war on them has had its desired effect. They are begging us, out of desperation.” Ba’al bit off each word and squeezed his black nails into a tight fist.

The allure of being handed the whole of the albino insurgency on a platter presented itself to Qurong in full color for the first time.

“Sir.” Cassak stepped forward. “Forgive the observation, but there is no guarantee that this isn’t a trap to kill both you and the high priest.”

“They don’t ascribe to violence,” Qurong said.

“No, but they could take you and force you to drown. They could—”

“Do the red water’s poisons work if one is forced to drown?”

“I don’t know,” the general said. “The point is, this must not be done on his terms. We should take the army. Even the Eramites take courage from Thomas Hunter’s evasion of capture. We look small, unable to kill this one man. Here is our chance. We could then strike at a demoralized Eram and be assured victory.”

Qurong regarded Ba’al. He understood now why the priest had summoned him here. This battle would be fought and won in the heavens, not with swords. This was a matter for Ba’al, not Qurong. The dark priest needed only his consent and attendance.

He kept his eyes on the priest as he spoke. “Hunter would see our army and be gone. Those were not his terms.”

“Not if I commanded the Throaters,” Cassak said.

The temple’s military wing consisted of five thousand highly trained assassins commonly referred to as Throaters, named after less-discerning killers among the Forest Guard, before it had been defeated and assimilated by the Horde. Indeed, most of the original Forest Guard had left Qurongi and joined Eram in the northern desert. The Horde’s greatest fighters were now Eramites.

But they were vastly outnumbered by his full army, Qurong reminded himself. His own Throaters were gaining strength too. The whole matter was an absurd mess. He hated the albinos with a passion, but he feared the Eramites more, regardless of what Teeleh said. He doubted nearly everything attributed to the bat god, whom none of them had seen for a very long time.

“Perhaps. But our dark priest may be right, this is a war to be waged on a different front. And if he is right and he can summon this red dragon Teeleh to do his bidding, we will be rid of the thorn in our side once and for all.”

“And . . .” Cassak hesitated on the next obvious point.

“Go on, say it.”

“Teeleh forbid, but I must serve my king.” He dipped his head to Ba’al in respect. “But if, however unlikely, this dragon we serve does not devour this albino child, surely no one is suggesting that Qurong do as Thomas has demanded and drink their red poison.”

The mention of poison knifed through Qurong’s belly, and he wondered if the ailment in his gut over these past thirty days was the result of bad food. Or worse, real poison. Served to him by Ba’al. Or an Eramite spy.

“I have no intention of nearing, much less entering, one of their cursed red lakes,” he snapped. “But if Ba’al fails in his promise to summon the beast, I will have permission from him to throw
him
into poisonous waters.” He paused, eyes on the priest. “Won’t I?”

The three freshly opened wounds on the witch’s forehead glistened in the flame light. His thin lips morphed into a grin. The evil man was as much serpent as he was human.

“I’ve lived in Teeleh’s bosom. He will never allow any harm to come to me.”

Qurong nodded. “It’s a day’s march. We will leave in the morning. Bring the Throaters.”

7

He held the mount steady with a soft cluck of his tongue and lifted his eyes to the high place on the far side. The canyons rose to a plateau that swelled on top, making it look pregnant. With what? Thomas could only assume evil.

This was Ba’al Bek. The highest plateau in this part of the desert. A place claimed by the dark priest. A comet, or perhaps Elyon’s fist, looked to have landed at the center of the rise, creating a massive crater the breadth of Qurongi City.

Beside him, Mikil spat to one side. “I don’t like this, Thomas. This whole valley stinks of death.”

“Sulfur,” he said.

Jamous harrumphed on Thomas’s left. “Call it what you want. She’s right. It smells as if it’s rising from Teeleh’s hell.” He pulled out a kirkuk and bit into the fruit’s red flesh. A single bite could keep a man on the move for a day. They each carried a small supply of various fruits taken from the trees near the red pool. Some nourished; others had medicinal value. Without the fruit, the Circle would surely have been wiped out by the Horde long ago. It was their primary advantage, allowing them to heal on the fly and travel for days into the deep desert without any other source of food or water.

Lake fruit. Cherished by albinos, bitter to the Horde.

They had left the Gathering within an hour of Thomas’s ultimatum, and the moonless desert night welcomed them in perfect silence. There were no great cheers, none of the customary embraces or wishes for safe travel, no calls for Elyon’s blessing on the mission.

Thomas had taken his son Jake out into the desert for a half an hour and assured the boy of his undying love for them all. Whatever happened, Jake must never abandon his love for Elyon, Thomas urged. Never.

“Of course not, Father. Never.”

Swinging the child around in an embrace, Thomas had held back tears of gratitude, concerned they might be seen as a sign of fear. The children didn’t need more worry.

Then he’d joined Chelise, kissed her passionately, and deflected her insistence that she join them. He’d wiped away her tears, mounted his steed, and rode into the desert with his choice of company: his most seasoned warrior, Mikil, who had laid down her arms with the rest of them years ago; her husband, Jamous; and Samuel, his wayward son, who might be the death of them all.

“Your son should have joined us by now,” Mikil said, gazing to the southern desert. “He could be dead.”

“Or he’s run off,” Jamous said.

Thomas had written his challenge on paper, set his seal at the top, rolled it into a scroll, and demanded that Samuel deliver it to the Horde at Qurongi. He arranged to meet them at Hell’s Gate, this narrow pass into the Beka Valley. Then, together, they would continue to the high place and wait for Qurong’s response.

“It would take a battalion of Scabs to bring Samuel down,” Thomas said. “I think he can deliver a message to one guard on the outskirts of Qurongi. He’ll be here.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He wants this as much as I do.”

Mikil grunted. “Then you’ve both lost your senses.”

“If you hadn’t saved my neck a thousand times, I would put you under the sword for that.”

“And if you hadn’t saved mine as many, I would turn it back on you,” she said. Their well-intentioned barbs lightened the mood.

He looked at his most trusted commander, now in her thirties, still childless by choice and still every bit the warrior she’d been when killing Scabs had been an obsession. Her bronzed cheek was marked by a scar, barely visible past strands of dark hair.

“Besides,” she said, “we’ve given up our swords. Remember?” She winked at him.

He had to grin, however thinly. They were all warriors at heart. Given the chance to take up arms against an enemy, they would throw themselves into the task.

But the Horde was no longer their enemy.

The disease was their enemy.

As was Teeleh, who’d cursed mankind with the disease. The way to destroy the disease had nothing to do with the sword and everything to do with the heart. Only by loving the Horde could they hope to persuade any Scab to throw away their diseased life, drown in Elyon’s waters, and rise to live again.

“Trust me,” he said, facing the high place again, “if the sword could rid the world of Teeleh’s curse, I would take sides with Samuel. In his youth he’s lost sight of the path and grown impatient for the destination.”

“So now you’ll risk all of our necks to prove him wrong,” Jamous said.

“You think we’re risking our lives? So you doubt Elyon will save us? You’ve proven my point.”

“Nonsense. I’m only—”

“You doubt Elyon’s power to save us. If even my elders doubt, then I’m only doing my duty. We’ll see if your doubt is justified.”

“It’s not your duty to test the power of Elyon.”

“Not him,” Thomas said. “I test my own heart. And Samuel’s. And now yours and Mikil’s. Do you object?”

Jamous looked ahead, silent. He didn’t dare object.

But another voice broke the silence.

“I object, Father.” Samuel walked his horse from an outcropping of boulders on their left. He’d washed the red war paint off his face and drawn his hair back in a ponytail. His son had reached the pass before them.

“You mean well, but your methods don’t work,” Samuel said. “Ten years of running and hiding have proven it. So be my guest, prove whatever else you want.”

They were the first words spoken by Samuel since their departure, and Thomas wasn’t sure if they deserved a response. The time for talk had passed.

He clenched his jaw and turned away from his son.

“Oh, please, you don’t think I wouldn’t have actually killed my sister, do you?”

“You delivered the message?”

“Naturally. Without bloodshed, just for you.”

Samuel pulled up alongside him and stared out over the canyons.

“Don’t be such an idealist, Father. This isn’t one of your dreams. We aren’t in the histories, waging war with some virus. We’re in a desert and our enemy uses swords to gut our children. When this little game of yours is over, you’ll turn us all over to the Horde and some of us won’t go easily. Then we’ll have our war.”

“Shut your muzzle, boy,” Mikil snapped. “Show some respect. This isn’t over yet.”

“Gladly,” Samuel said, then mumbled, “I’m done talking anyway.”

The histories. How long had it been since Thomas had given any thought to that time when he’d dreamed of another place? It was rarely spoken about by those he confided in these days. At one time he believed that he’d actually come
from
the histories, where, yes, a virus wreaked havoc on all he held sacred.

The Raison Strain
. It seemed so distant now. A dream of a dream. But Samuel had heard it all and forgotten nothing.

Thomas nudged his horse and pointed it into the pass. Samuel was right; they were done talking.

“Enough, Jake! For the last time, put that cursed stick of wood away before you do some real damage.”

The five-year-old stopped and looked up at her. His blond curls hung in his round, green eyes. She should take a blade to those locks before he resembled an overgrown tuft of desert wheat.

“Put it away, Jake,” Marie said, eyeing her brother. “You know what happens when you get carried away.”

Marie’s wounds were nearly healed. A day had passed since they’d applied the clear nectar from the green plums. Only the deepest cut across her belly, bared between her halter and her skirt, was still plainly visible. If Samuel had run her through with his sword, she might have perished. There was no rising from the dead, not even with a hundred fruits.

“You’re no example,” Chelise chided her.

“Please, Mother, we’re past that.”

“I still can’t believe you would subject us all to that display of brutality.”

“We’ve all been subjected to much worse.”

“He’s your brother, for the love of Elyon. And he”—she glanced at Jake, who was still looking up at them—“is your brother. What kind of foolish notions do you suppose I’ll have to pull out of his mind now? Did you think of that?”

“I defended the truth. If that comes at a cost, so be it.”

Yes, of course, the truth. Their whole family was going to burn on the funeral pyre in defense of the truth. However noble it might be, Chelise didn’t have to like it.

“Leave us, Jake. Find Johnny or Britton and find some mischief that has nothing to do with fighting.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Promise me.”

“Promise.”

He dropped the wooden sword, a gift from Samuel of all people. Jake skipped over the mats and slipped through the canvas flap as if it were made of air.

Most of their industry surrounded desert wheat, which, apart from beds of cactus, was one of the only plentiful food sources in the desert. There was the fruit, of course, but it could only be found near the red pools.

Like the Horde who’d occupied the desert before them, the albinos used the desert wheat for more than its grain. The stalks could be reduced to thread or woven into thick mats. With the help of dye from the rocks, a few Circle tents could turn a small corner of the desert into a colorful flower.

“Sit down, Mother. You’re making me crazy,” Marie said.

She sat in a rocking chair Thomas had fashioned out of wood, one of the few pieces of furniture they took with them when they fled the Horde. She could understand Samuel’s frustration; she could not understand his plan to resolve it.

“The other tribes are on their way?” Marie asked.

“Our runners are probably just reaching them. But they’ll be here in record time, you can count on that. I hope your father knows what he’s doing. It’s a dangerous thing to have so many in one place. He had no right to leave me behind.”

“He’s also Thomas,” Marie said. “Thomas of Hunter. Do you know how many narrow escapes he’s survived? How many armies he’s defeated? How many times he’s been right?”

Chelise stood, no longer willing to sit and rock. “And this time I think he’s wrong. He’s going to throw everything down on the line, and even if he wins this reckless game, Qurong will never follow through on his end. He’ll betray Thomas.”

Marie crossed the room and sat in the chair that Chelise had vacated. “Well, you should know.”

“That’s right.” She knew her father. He was as stubborn as a mule. Even more immovable than Thomas.

“That’s why you’re so upset, isn’t it?” Marie said. “This is more about Qurong than Thomas.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Of course this is about my father, but it isn’t a game. It’s just . . . it’s impossible!” Chelise could feel the heat in her face but felt powerless to stop it.

“I think that’s the point,” Marie said softly, staring at a bowl of fruit surrounded by a dozen blue pillows on the mat where they reclined to eat. “Impossible for us, impossible for Samuel. Impossible for all except one.”

She switched her gaze to Chelise. “What if he’s right? What if he wins this challenge against Qurong?”

“My father will never drown. Not like this.”

“Then how?”

Chelise turned away, fighting back tears of frustration. For a few moments neither of them spoke. The rocker creaked as Marie stood and stepped up behind her. Her hand rested on Chelise’s shoulder, the same hand that had mastered the sword and fended off Samuel just yesterday. But now it was gentle and steady.

“Then let’s go,” Marie said quietly. “Let’s go to your father, Qurong, leader of the Horde, and let’s save my father, Thomas of Hunter, leader of the Circle.”

“Elyon knows how I want to. How I need to. Saving my father is all I dream about, you know?” Her brow wrinkled in deep thought.

“If what you say is right, if Qurong will double-cross Father, then we have to go.”

“Thomas would disagree.”

“Of course. He would say that Elyon will protect him,” Marie said, removing her hand and stepping around Chelise. “But Samuel’s right: no one has actually seen Elyon in ten years.”

“Don’t tell me you fought your brother with doubt in your heart.”

“Honestly? I think I fought Samuel to fight off my own demons of doubt. Does that make me as wrong as he is? Assuming he is wrong?”

So, even Thomas’s daughter was harboring doubt. The situation was worse than she’d imagined. Thomas was right in casting this challenge. The Circle was fracturing. It was all breaking apart.

“You don’t approve of my honesty?” Marie said, noticing the change in her.

“Honesty? I don’t know what is honest anymore. All I know is that we have a problem, Thomas was right about that.” She stepped past Marie. “And I know that I fear for his life.”

“Where are you going?”

“To speak to the council. Or what’s left of it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re right. We have to go after him.”