Oracle of ruin, p.30
Oracle of Ruin, page 30
I whirl before him, ramming my dagger through the back of his skull. Oily, black blood splatters over my hand, my face, and the intricately carved hilt. I tug on the blade. It won’t move. Hissing fills my ears and flaming pain shoots through my leg as an Infected’s claws rake through it. I flinch in time, sparing myself from any muscle damage, but the wound bleeds furiously, drawing the attention of all the monsters.
“Fucking… fuck,” I hiss between breaths. “Derrín, give me your sword and get my dagger.”
Derrín’s eyes go wide at the sight of my gold blood mingling with the snow, mixed with the black. His throat constricts and his mouth drops open in a soft “o.” “You’re hurt.”
“Yes, and we are going to die, so give it to me.”
Numbly, he passes me the sword, and not a second too late, I lop the head off of an Infected careening towards us. I swing the blade in wide arcs, casting fatal blows upon the depraved beasts two at a time.
A cool and familiar metal handle is pressed into my hand, though slick with greasy blood. Derrín stays huddled behind me as I fight now with both dagger and sword, stabbing my opponents when they come too close and slashing long range when I have the time. I work in a circular motion, protecting Derrín, as well as myself.
We continue on like one of the training exercises back in the palace. After Rowan abandoned me on the ballroom balcony, I made the knights train with me, taking on three or four at a time. Those knights were skilled, and while they initially did not wish to harm their princess, they soon lost such qualms as I tore through their ranks. The Infected are bloodthirsty and fueled by unending rage, but they are clumsy and blinded by their strengths. Their shrieks of rage are music in the wind as I deliver blow after blow, kill after kill.
However their rage fuels them, mine is only draining my already run-ragged body, not to mention the insatiable nagging of dark magic at the base of my skull. It squeezes my senses, blurs my vision, slows my heart rate. Something sweet and distinctly iron drips down the cleft beneath my nose and onto my lips.
The trees begin to spin. One more—there’s just one more infected. Then Derrín is safe.
I sink to my knees as the last of the monsters leaps.
And it dives onto Rowan’s sword that Derrín ripped from my grasp and jabbed before I fell.
The creature falls to the side, its inky blood helping it to slide clean of the blade. The mechanic sheaths the sword at his hip with a green face, taking great care not to stare at the gore-speckled blade. He wipes his hands on his trousers, then extends his hand to me.
“I refuse,” he grinds out, “to watch another sister die.”
Chapter 38
Verosa
As we stumble out of the Bone Wood, the mist recedes, clinging to the darkness of the trees. I glance up at Derrín to find him staring at the dark blood on his hands. He catches my stare and matches it with a haunted expression.
Silence rattles through the brown grass, the breeze that picks up dry despite the slick of ice surrounding us. I lean against Derrín as I limp, my leg screaming with each motion. Derrín’s grip on my arm is a vice as he all but drags me beside him.
“You’re doing great, just a little further,” he murmurs every so often, as if his words of affirmation can stop the blood from seeping through my torn calf.
I look down once to assess the damage and my head begins to spin when I see my own gored flesh hanging off the muscle like strips of meat in a butcher’s market.
Derrín grips me tighter, noticing the same thing. “Don’t look,” he commands. “You’re going to be fine.”
“We have different definitions of fine,” I try to say, but the words die on my tongue.
After a short while, Derrín deems it safe enough for us to stop and patch my wound. We only made it a mile or two from the Bone Wood, but are now far enough from it that we shouldn’t have to worry about coming across any more infected.
Red clouds dot the horizon as the mechanic pulls the leg of my trousers up, then promptly vomits. I pull my leg out of the way just in time, then scream between clenched teeth at the searing pain that rattles my bones.
“Let me do it,” I say once Derrín finishes his retching. I attempt to take the medical kit from him, but he holds it tight in his white-knuckled grip.
He fishes a needle from the kit and some thread, his face going paler than before. “No, I can do this.”
“It’s not that I don’t think you can, but you don’t see action a lot. It’s okay if this is too much.”
He runs his tongue over his dry lips and wipes the corner of his mouth on his sleeve. “You need to be stitched up.”
I allow myself to look down at the wound and dig my fists into the muddy ground. Some of the lacerations are deeper than the others and will definitely need stitches, but others are shallow, just skin hanging from the wound. That skin will never heal, instead just rotting where it hangs. I grimace and grip my blade, beginning to wipe the dagger off on the cleanest part of my shirt.
“I need you to start a fire first,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
Derrín’s face slackens, almost thankful to have something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve stitching my necrotizing flesh back together. His hands still shake, though noticeably less as he strikes the flint until a dry branch catches flame. He keeps the fire small lest the smoke attract attention, but soon enough, the flames are hot enough for what I need to do. Once the blade is clean, I hold it to the flame, letting the fire purge any remaining bacteria. Derrín watches with a void expression in his eyes.
Then without warning, I bring the blade down in a flash. A scream tears loose from my throat as I slice through my flesh, cutting the dying pieces from my leg. I repeat the process while Derrín rushes forward, his face a mask of horror as I strip all the loose flesh from my body.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“The skin is dying, and the edges will die too before those stitches heal. You can’t stitch dead skin. Now move.”
I sob unabashedly, pain dulling my senses until there is nothing but the steady slash of my knife. I steel myself against the pain and fear as I plunge the dagger back into the fire, then lay the flat of the blade against the shallow wounds. The sizzling scent of burned flesh mingles with the snow as I scream until my voice dies in my throat.
But I’m not done. I can’t be. The wound will get infected and if I’m dead, I can’t save anyone. I can’t be the answer.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I repeat the vulgar word like a prayer as I take the needle from Derrín and holds it above the flame, too, repeating my previous process. I’ve never had a problem with needles before, but now the curved bow of the tiny thing strikes a new fear in my heart.
“Have you done this before?” Derrín’s face pinches.
“Yes, many times,” I lie.
I’ve never done this before. But something in the way Derrín’s face relaxes tells me he never has either. So he returns to sit by the fire, laying Rowan’s sword at his side and staring into the flickering golden flames.
I grit my teeth and slide the needle in, ignoring the mix of pain and the sensation of something foreign entering my body. My calves tighten, the muscles trying to push the needle and thread from my skin. Silent tears streak my face, mixing with the sap, blood, and dirt. I do my best to force the muscles to relax.
The stitches are crude, but I am done soon enough and cleaning the wound with the cleanest patch of snow I can find. I think back to Emi placing snow on my injured hand by a small fire like this. Laying her head in my lap.
I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “How’re you doing over there?”
No response.
“You know, it was either that monster or me. I can’t say I’m in a position to dole out any moral awards at the moment, but if it counts for anything… thank you.”
Nothing. Not even the tiniest flicker of emotion crosses his face.
I’ve seen this in soldiers who have just returned from war, saw it in Blaine’s face when he lost the duel against Lucius. It is the look of a man haunted by what he had to do to survive. The one who kills a bit of the humanity in himself for the first time. That would have been me all those months ago if Rowan hadn’t been there to keep me grounded.
I settle on the ground beside him, ignoring the barking pain in my leg. I try to situate myself in a position that hurts the least, and that winds up being cross-legged and leaning into the mechanic for support. My head rests in the crook of his shoulder and I can feel each breath he takes, shallow and quick.
“You know, the first time I killed something, it was a person. A boy, maybe sixteen years old. He was a rebel and—”
“Vera, I am going to need you to shut up.” Derrín’s voice is gravelly and mechanical, no hint of the heart I know is breaking within him.
I close my mouth and just sit there, having used all my energy to settle beside him.
The Bone Wood is a red and white smear on the horizon, a stain on the map just far enough to be safe but close enough to see. We’ve left a trail of bodies where we’ve been so far—the Ricor’s victims, then the Ricor itself, now a dozen or more Infected. Derrín can’t even touch raw meat since it looks too much like the animal it used to be. He can hardly look at it until it is cooked and arranged beyond resemblance. This must be killing him.
He finally speaks again after some time. Six words that streak pain through the cavity of my chest like an arrow: “I was able to do it.”
He was able to kill something. Realization washes over me in horror. It is not guilt for the Infected that he feels, but his true sister. The one he wasn’t able to kill for when it mattered. But he was able to kill now, for me, and that just proves he was capable all along. He just didn’t when it mattered.
His head lolls to the side and his cheek plops against the top of my head. His breath rattles in my ear and my hand finds his, squeezing tightly. Three times. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
“Your sister is going to flip her shit when she sees the scars we come home with,” I finally say after the silence becomes too heavy.
Derrín’s breathing hitches and he stares down at his unwrapped fingers then laughs, the sound splitting the dead air. “She’s going to kill us both,” he agrees.
I nudge his shoulder with my own. “It’s not too late to go back into the Bone Wood.”
“Remind me that I had that choice when we see her again.”
A slight shuffle later and Derrín is standing, offering me his hand once more. He pulls me to my feet and loops my arm over his shoulder. I lean heavily against him, unapologetically grunting at each step. Derrín tells me I sound like an old man and I threaten to burn his ass to a crisp.
Our camp and rest forgotten, we plow forward into the night towards that incessant tug of darkness.
“What do you think this place will look like?” he asks after a while. “More monsters, spiders?”
“Yes, lots of spiders, Derrín.”
“I knew it. We hadn’t seen any yet and I thought we were too lucky.”
I snort at that. Luck is surely something that must exist in this universe, but it doesn’t give a damn about us. “Maybe the Kijova ate them all.”
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
Derrín raises a single brow as if questioning my choice of comeback. I will admit it was not my finest, but not my worst. I stick my tongue out at him. Maybe not my worst, but definitely my most childish of responses.
He reaches up and yanks on my tongue, an action I wasn’t expecting.
I yelp and lean away, falling on my ass. “You’re fucking weird, man.” I spit on the ground and he laughs, this time, a hearty sound. It warms my heart enough that I can forget the pain in my leg and ass where I just slammed onto the cold ground.
I pull myself to my feet this time, too stubborn to accept his help. My wounds may keep me slow, but I grit my teeth and walk on my own anyway, even as tears prick the corners of my eyes. Derrín fishes through our packs, having elected himself mandatory bag holder given my condition, and produces a few strips of dried fruit and bread, passing me one of each. I gratefully accept and eat in silence, trying to ignore my whirling mind.
According to Mavis’s map, we should only be an hour or so from the Oracle. The Bone Wood was a shortcut that we hadn’t intended on taking due to the rumors surrounding the place, but it shaved several days off our journey regardless.
The mountains surrounding us grow steeper until we find ourselves in a valley, the dark and hulking figures of the steep cliff edge blocking the new day’s light from sight. Dim light guides our path, coming from where I do not know. Suddenly, I find myself missing my light powers more than ever. Will I ever get them back, or was Derrín right? Have I finally killed the light? I try to shove the thought down, as I’ve gotten so good at doing lately, but it remains in the back of my mind. Taunting me.
“Hey, Vera?”
“Hmm?”
“I was right.”
I trail his gaze to a junction in the cliffside. At least seven dark shapes mindlessly wander, their elongated arms dragging against the ground. Their talons spark when they hit the stone in front of the cave mouth. The Kijova meander together, almost in a pack, standing between us and what I can only assume is the Oracle.
I crouch down behind a boulder, studying the clearest path past the monsters. Derrín settles next to me, placing his hand atop the boulder. Then he shrieks and waves his hand, nearly tipping over and alerting every Kijova of our presence. I grab his elbow to steady him and he hisses in rage and panic.
“Spiders. Evil spawn of hell…”
I nearly snort in amusement at the mechanic’s creative insults that he slews at the tiny arachnid. He settles quietly a few moments later, squatting beside me to study the cave entrance. A few of the Kijova mingle just before it, the remainder patrolling the woods. The cave mouth is sealed shut, save for a crack. Derrín will need to open it in order for me to slip in and find the Oracle.
Then a tug in my stomach. Not the pull of dark magic, but a familiar burning sensation. Something I thought I’d lost pulling me towards the Oracle. Hope flutters in my chest and I test it out. My veins in my wrist begin to glow. Silencing the light quickly, I turn to the Nightwalker, suddenly more confident that we can actually pull this off.
“Do we understand the plan?”
Derrín raises his hand, but I cut him off.
“I asked do we understand, not do we agree.”
He huffs and brings out the small blade I gave him this morning. “Kya is going to be mad.”
“She will have to get over it. Fingers bleed more.”
Derrín will have to slice his finger to draw the rune on the stone while I take care of the Kijova and clear a path for his escape while I enter the cave.
“Let’s go.”
Derrín nods and I don’t waste a second before sprinting down the hill, sliding to a stop in front of one of the beasts. It hardly has time to raise its claws before my fists are up. I call forth that well of power and…
Nothing. No light. No darkness.
I try again, demanding light to come forth, but nothing happens.
I hear Derrín cry out behind me. I hear his warning moments before the blow hits, and manage to jump to the side right as those claws rake the dirt where I stood moments before.
“Use your powers!”
“I can’t!” I shriek in a panic. I thought I felt that light, I’d been able to make a small spark back in the Bone Wood, and a few moments ago, I glowed, so why can’t I make it now?
A panicking realization settles in my stomach. I really might have killed the last bit of light in me. That bit of light was the last of it warning me to turn back, but I ignored it.
Pushing past the dull ache in my chest, I face the beast before me. “Fuck it,” I grumble, unfurling my fingers.
I ignore how Derrín shouts as I raise my hand. A dark wave emits, temporarily slicing the Kijova in half and stunning me with pain.
“We don’t have long before they reform, and this magic is unstable without a sacrifice. I’ll do the best I can, but once that cave is open, run. Don’t wait for me.”
Derrín’s face is pale as he drags his finger along the stone. A crimson and silver trail follows the path his digit takes and before long, the rune is finished. The ground rumbles and debris falls from the cave as the entrance groans in opening.
“Run!” I shout as I cut down the last Kijova while the first one begins to reform.
The mechanic looks between me and the beast, hesitating for just a moment.
I push a ripple of power his way. “Now!”
The magic is enough to set his feet running towards the hill again. “You have twenty-four hours and then I’m coming back!” he shouts as he crosses the hill to safety.
I can make that work.
The stone screeches as it grinds in closing. I force oxygen to my burning legs with each deep breath I take and will my feet to move faster. With only a sliver of time left, I launch myself from the ground and fall through the opening. My shoulder barks in pain as it makes contact with the stone floor. A sickening pop comes as the joint dislodges from its socket and hot blood begins to seep through the tear in my tunic. I hiss in pain as I roll onto my back, surrounded by the dark.
I sob through clenched teeth and call for light. “Lumis.” Even the words refuse to bear power. I fish through my pouch with my good hand, pulling out a match and using my hands to find a torch along the wall. Thank the Laei Derrín remembered to grab our gear as we ran. Once the torch is lit, I set to the second task—resetting my shoulder. I bite down on the leather strap of my sack as I grab my wrist and pull. The crack resounds in the cavern as I scream against the leather, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
My blood should heal the wound soon enough, if the Oracle is of any help at all, so I forgo turning my only shirt into a sling and pluck the torch from the ground. The flame sputters slightly as I rise and inspect the walls. There is only one path to follow, and I allow the cave system to guide me. I don’t have time to think on the absence of my powers. I have twenty-four hours to get the Oracle to agree to teach me and learn how to save everyone.
