Lunatic

by Dekker, Ted

  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."

  e need to think," Darsal whispered. She climbed down. Silvie followed, but neither she nor Johnis answered. Johnis looked about ready to jump out the window and take off in a suicide run.

  Thus far they'd gone unheard. Lucky.

  But luck never liked to be pushe
d.

  Darsal motioned to Silvie and grabbed a crate on one end. Silvie joined her and picked up the other end. They hoisted the box and lowered it over the hole that opened the attic floor to the room below. It slipped.

  They steadied the crate until it rested quietly in place. The dim light snuffed out, save the window. Johnis turned to stare.

  Silvie found a long cloth and drew it over the window, stuffing the corners along the edges of the frame to hold it up.

  The room grew dark.

  "Qurong is in Middle? Now?" Silvie again. "The Guard ... The Horde-"

  "Stop!" Johnis's voice, though soft, fell like glass among them, and Silvie flinched. "Five years," Johnis rasped. "Five years and ... Middle is ..."

  "Where is Thomas?" Darsal dared ask.

  They'd been told five years would pass in Middle between their leaving and their returning. But no one had said anything about this atrocity.

  Darsal felt tricked. Betrayed. "If Qurong is here and their new general is here, then the Scabs have ..."

  No one answered.

  Thomas gone. The others probably dead. Middle infested with Scabs, with that abomination called the Dark Priest.

  But ... how?

  "Dead." Silvie's blue eyes narrowed to slits and fixed on the floor, groping at knives that weren't there. The girl's parents had been killed by Scabs. One blade was all Silvie of Southern needed to fulfill her vow of revenge.

  "Or Scab." Darsal felt like the walls of the storage room were closing in, threatening to crush all three of them. The floor seemed to warp.

  Maybe it would collapse. Expose them to the enemy.

  "They've killed the entire Guard," Silvie said. "They'd have to. No one defeats the Guard. Unless the traitor ..."

  Darsal drew a sharp breath and blinked. "This is what we saved those bloody books for? This? After-"

  "Stop!" Johnis struck her. Darsal staggered back, more startled he'd hit her than actually hurt.

  Silvie caught Darsal before she could fall to the ground and righted her. "Johnis, keep it down." Thank Elyon, Qurong was shouting too loudly to hear them.

  Darsal pushed off. "I am not turning Horde, and I am not going to die like a rat in a cage."

  Johnis wasn't seeing Silvie or Darsal. "No, no ..." He darted back toward the crates and scaled up toward the window.

  Silvie tugged at his ankle.

  He shook her off. "Kiella, my parents. My mother ..:' His voice caught in his throat and lodged there.

  Rosa. Darsal groaned. Oh no. Not again.

  "Johnis, come down," Silvie whispered. "We'll have to find them. They didn't kill all of them. We'll just have to find the Guard and warn them."

  He was already pushing up the window, scooting something around to make more room. He kicked loose of Silvie and swung his leg up.

  Darsal grabbed him and jerked him down. She and Silvie both caught his flailing form and lowered his struggling, writhing mass to the ground before he hit. Darsal clamped a hand over his mouth. He kicked at her.

  Silvie planted her knee against his throat and chest, leaned close, then whispered something Darsal couldn't hear. Johnis stopped fighting and grew still.

  Qurong's voice wafted up from the conference room below. Sucrow hissed a reply, and then the general spoke.

  "How much time do you need?"

  "Six, maybe eight months," Marak said. "Sucrow's throaters have their uses. Eight months at the most."

  "Do it in three."

  "My lord-"

  "Three months, General."

  "So they aren't all dead," Silvie whispered, her face only inches from Johnis's. "They can't be." She let Johnis up, and the three of them scooted closer to the hole to listen.

  "They could be Scabs." Darsal shuddered.

  Succumbing to the skin scabbing disease that plagued the Horde-that cracked the skin and turned it white and flaky, that itched and burned like fire and robbed their minds of the capacity to even see their diseased condition-was worse than death.

  All three of them had felt it before.

  None wished to feel it again.

  Silvie scratched the back of her neck. "Don't think like that."

  Johnis hushed them, riveted once more to the crack in the floor. He was still shaking and wiping his eyes, but now his expression had changed.

  Darsal envisioned his mind beginning to work its magic, that insane part of him that could concoct wild schemes only Elyon could actually execute while keeping all three of them alive.

  "When does the clock start for us?" Darsal asked. "It's been five years here. I haven't bathed in the lakes in ten-"

  "Please don't talk." Johnis groaned.

  They listened.

  The Horde had run the Guard and the Forest's inhabitants into the desert and taken over Middle. The Guard had gone deep. Thomas Hunter had been unheard of and unseen for two years.

  Qurong unleashed once more on his general, this time about a band of rebels gathering outside the forest.

  Darsal had heard enough.

  "We need to get out of here," she whispered.

  "We're trapped." Silvie perched on a crate, features now obscured by shadows. "I don't believe this."

  None of them were truly still. Silvie fidgeted. Johnis had come out of his shock and begun pacing, hands ruffling his hair. And Darsal felt herself shivering down in her marrow.

  "Never mind what you believe. We need a plan," she said. "Johnis, what building is this? I can't tell from up here."

  Darsal and Silvie had only been in Middle a few weeks, but Johnis had spent sixteen years here. Even if things had changed, it shouldn't take his memory long to reorient itself.

  Johnis spoke. "This is where the council used to meet. Remember that big building with the amphitheater on one side?"

  She nodded. They'd been there several times. Usually for a formal reprimand. "The amphitheater runs up against the lake. We're on the same side, opposite end, then."

  "Right," Johnis murmured.

  "We could use the books." Silvie withdrew one of her Books of History and put it between them. For a second what remained of the light caught her eyes and lit them like a cat's. "Touch them with blood and go someplace else. Someplace safe."

  "No." Johnis and Darsal spoke at the same time.

  "Get that away from me." Darsal withdrew her book and tossed it. The leather thumped on the ground.

  They froze as the muffled voices below grew quiet. For a full minute neither the three young Forest Guards trapped in the attic nor the Scabs below said a word.

  "What was that?"

  "Rats."

  "Find out. We're finished here."

  assak stormed into the back of Sucrow's interrogation room. Warryn hadn't noticed yet, but the throater would get an earful the second he stopped for a moment's rest.

  "Bloody snake," Cassak growled.

  Warryn ignored him. He was deep in his interrogation at this point.

  Or rather, his torture.

  "Your orders were to wait."

  The throater smirked, still intent on the albino they had finally captured. For eighteen months Jordan of Southern had wreaked havoc on Middle, raiding the town and stirring up trouble in the ranks.

  "Silence while I'm on the supreme commander's business," the throater taunted.

  "His or the priest's?"

  No answer.

  Cassak folded his arms, watching in silence.

  The flames burned through Jordan's skin. The albino grimaced, teeth ground together. With his body stretched out across the altar and laid bare, he could do little else. His smooth, golden brown skin shone with sweat, marred black and red where the throaters had applied the lit torch.

  Warryn, the throater performing the torture, knew his work well. Marak had hesitated on rounding up his own brother for execution, but Qurong had had enough, and it was time to bring the albino raider to justice.

  If they could catch him.

  Warryn's capture of Jordan's wife marked the end for the
wily albino. Marak hadn't liked the idea, but Cassak knew no surer way to ensnare him. After days of arguing he'd convinced Marak of his loyalties and the inevitability of the mess.

  Teeleh help him if Marak learned the whole of it.

  "Burn him," Warryn ordered his men. "We'll loosen his tongue."

  "Not. . ."Jordan gasped. "Betray ..."

  Warryn's face twisted into a cruel grin. "Scream for me."

  The albino set his jaw and braced himself. Cassak could see the muscles in his limbs tighten. Bullheaded adolescent, just like his brother Marak. Neither readily showed pain.

  "You saw the trap, fool," Cassak muttered. "All you had to do was run." Loyalty, Marak's mantra. Jordan's mantra. This "interrogation" was pointless.

  The albino's quivering turned to thrashing. He'd held out longer than most, but even he had his limitations. The boy screamed in pain.

  "Withdraw." Waving his assistant away, Warryn stepped around to the albino's side and yanked his head up by the hair with a gloved hand. "This can end, wretch. I can kill you quickly or slowly, but that is up to you. Where are the rest of the vermin?"

  The albino said nothing. Warryn motioned for the wire and a long, thin knife. The albino tried to kick, but the shackles on his ankles prevented him from succeeding. The real screaming started.

  "Where, wretch?" Warryn roared over the albino's cries. "How did you get in? How did the others escape?" Question after question with no real pause to let the albino respond.

  Warryn was going to kill the wretch.

  "Enough. Question him again later."

  The throater cursed. "He's close."

  "Start on the woman, then."

  "WHAT'S IN THE CRATE?" JOHNIS ASKED. HIS EXPRESSION was grim.

  Silvie opened it. "Blankets, boxes of dry goods, morst."

  Johnis reached down and picked Darsal's book off the floor. "Give me the other." She did, glad to be done with the business.

  Then realized what he was doing. "You're going to leave them? Here?"

  He looked somewhat torn. "I don't want to be caught with them. We'll decide how to come back and what to do with them later."

  Johnis lay all of the books at the bottom of the crate and covered them carefully before closing the lid and setting another crate atop. Seemed to adjust something behind him. Straightened his shirt.