Heshayol, p.22
Heshayol, page 22
Osiscica struck, one of the arm-length fangs piercing Drast’s thigh.
Throwing his head back, he could not keep the wail from tearing through his throat. The pain seared through his flesh like fire. His hands instinctively fell to the wound, careful not to touch the lodged fang, gripping at his upper leg in despair. Almost immediately he could feel the venom burning through his blood. He struggled to extricate himself from the beast’s fang, but the single sharpened tooth held him in place.
Tyran sprang to him, grabbing at his shoulder to keep him from being swallowed whole. “Drast!”
Drast tried to ignore the sting, breathing deeply.
“Free yourself,” Erzebeth appeared by him. “Do not let her swallow you.”
He grinned at Erzebeth. “I am tired of getting my ass kicked. I’ll take my chances inside!”
“I don’t think so.” Tyran hooked his hand underneath Drast’s arm, pulling hard and causing the sword-like fang to tear at his leg.
“Gods! Stop. Don’t pull!” Drast was drawn closer to the snake as his brother followed his command.
“What do we do, then?” Tyran asked, holding on to him.
“Whatever you do, don’t follow me.” He forced a laugh as his legs disappeared into Osiscica’s mouth. He looped one arm over the snake’s snout, trying to delay the inevitable. He reached to his brother with his magical hand. “Alatir.”
Tyran nodded, using Koldovstvo to direct the stone to his brother’s grasp.
Drast sighed as his fingers closed over it, already feeling it go to work, the snake’s gullet pulling at him, steady and relentless. He was already losing his grip, pulled almost entirely inside, the fang slowly extricating from his leg as it folded back to the roof of Osiscica’s mouth.
With a relentless laugh, he pulled away from Tyran and let go of the snake to wave at his brother. “See you on the other side, brother!”
“Wait, Drast!” His brother’s voice disappeared as he descended down Osiscica’s throat, the soft pink mouth quickly turning to crushing blackness.
Hello, darkness, my old friend.
Drast giggled at the return of the voice—or tried to—but the weight of Osiscica’s throat pushed the air from his lungs. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water trying to find more.
Something struck his fleshy cocoon from the outside of Osiscica, jarring him considerably, followed by a furious series of additional blows that probably caused him more pain than the snake. He twitched, trying to pound at the side of the snake’s neck to tell his brother to stop the assault, but he had no mobility. Slowly, he was being pulled down farther into the breathless blackness of Osiscica’s belly.
I am starting to think this was a really bad idea. He thought the words while mouthing them at the same time, but his lack of breath gave them no sound.
I could have told you that if you would listen. Kowin wanted you to be eaten. The skin-switcher, too.
A slow, creeping panic began to rise in his chest. The whacks and wallops continued, relentless and furious. Drast half imagined he could hear a scream of rage beyond the constricting muscles.
The crushing feeling in his chest had become painful, unbearable, stealing his attention from the agony in his leg. The Alatir Stone may protect him from actual physical harm, but the sensation of being eaten alive did not taper. Trying to focus his will, Drast used Koldovstvo to use the little air around him to press against the sides of Osiscica’s throat, giving himself a momentary reprieve from the muscles that slowly and deliberately pulled him down. He took a single stale breath that started him coughing.
After several hacks, he finally gained control of his breathing, enduring the dry itch at the base of his throat. He soon found he could only manage by holding air in his lungs intermittently before taking another pained, short breath.
With a fingernail’s grip on the magic that kept him from being compressed into the beast’s next meal, he pulled the air around him into a singular mass and pushed it against the side of the snake’s throat. Blinded by darkness, he could not see whether the attempt had any impact, but a sudden twist of Osiscica’s elongated body, followed by a renewed pressure around him, told him it was, at the very least, a discomfort.
But try as he might, pressing his hands against the solid ball of air seemed to stretch the snake rather than cause any rupture or damage. He had nearly fully extended his arms, but nothing happened to give him freedom. Osiscica could probably swallow creatures ten times his size—his little ball of air was not going to do much.
Moreover, this small pocket of air allowing him to breathe turned so thick that each breath became a greater struggle. He could not find a way to satiate his need to breathe.
He became dizzy and tired. Wolos spoke in his head.
Cut it.
Drast blinked drearily and reshaped the air, trying to keep the element solid but transforming it to a sharpened point against the distended section of flesh. He hoped he was still closer to the head than the tail.
The pinned air tore a pint-size hole through Osiscica’s skin and scales. The sudden burst released the pressure, causing the snake’s innards to collapse back around him, removing the little air in Drast’s lungs. Osiscica’s blood gushed into the small space—Drast struggled to press his hand against the flow to keep himself from drowning. Finding the hole, he thrust his good hand forward, wriggling it until he felt the cold, fresh air on the other side.
As quickly as he could, he pulled the air through the small hole, filling the space around him and widening the gash in Osiscica’s side. She writhed about in response, tossing him back and forth inside the space, which grew rapidly with the influx of air.
You may have been better off letting the poison kill you as it did the skin-switcher.
Drast angled his head, ignoring the voice. Breathing easily, with blood sloshing about—and a pocket of air large enough to hold him three times over—Drast felt a sudden reversal of the muscles pulling at him. Osiscica was attempting to heave him from its insides. With the pain and burning from the sharp fang still plaguing him, he fought against the snake’s effort, shoving his magical hand back through the hole he created.
He hooked his other arm in the widened gash to prevent his ascension to Osiscica’s mouth, while maintaining his focus on the pocket of air around him.
He was secure. He breathed easily.
A sudden tug at his arm dragged him through the opening up to his shoulder, and a subsequent tug nearly dislocated it. Realizing Tyran was trying to pull him out, Drast sought to further widen the hole, but the snake thrashed, twisting and turning. If it were not for the Alatir Stone, Drast likely would have lost his remaining arm.
He cried out momentarily against the pain, despite having gained no injury, and lurched away from Tyran. Pulling his hand back to the elbow, he giggled on impulse. Altering his magical arm into a jagged knife, he sawed at the muscle and scales of the snake.
With the opening expanded, Drast dove through with his hands above his head until he was hanging half out of the beast. Osiscica twisted around to face him. He grumbled, realizing how far away from the head he had slid down the body.
Halfway there.
Drast pushed the voice away again, noticing that his brother had been hard at work during his captivity. The snake’s triangular head was bloodied and battered. The pale eyes were mangled, oozing yellow goop, mirroring the deep gouges and gashes along its horned snout and beneath its jaw.
“A little help, brother,” Drast called out in desperation.
Osiscica reared to strike at him, a meal extricating itself from the snake’s own body. The words were barely out of his mouth before he was yanked free with Koldovstvo. The beast behind him hissed and writhed in pain. A gaping, bleeding wound was left in its side.
Drast caught himself with Koldovstvo, flying in Erzebeth’s dim light. Tyran’s magical orb had disappeared.
Tyran eyed him, flying at the spirit’s side. “We could have pulled you out. Was it really worth it?”
Oh, do answer him. Was it? I am not sure if it was long enough or pleasurable enough.
Drast grinned, trying to wipe blood from his eyes and cheeks. “Not even a little. A lot goes on when you’re being eaten that you never really think about.” Catching sight of Osiscica moving toward them again, he elbowed Tyran and flew back. “Here it comes!”
Tyran darted away and Drast flew down, struggling to find a stone that had not been broken to bits over Osiscica’s head already.
You cannot ignore me forever.
“I can try,” Drast muttered, searching Heshayol for anything to use as a weapon. “Oh, brother?”
“What?”
“Can we destroy just one more column? Maybe one at the back that no one will notice?”
Tyran’s grunt as he zipped past, the snake striking after him, was all the confirmation Drast needed. Using Koldovstvo, he took an entire column, the roof cracking and crumbling, depositing a large mass of sand, gravel, and ice to the floor below. Keeping the column mostly intact, he melded it with magic into a stronger piece.
“Bring the beast back through!” he yelled to Tyran, smiling at the column. “And be ready to kill this blasted thing!”
Tyran used what larger pieces of rubble he could find to keep Osiscica’s attention, pulling her through the underground complex toward Drast.
With the massive column parallel to the ground, Drast waited until the creature was nearly beneath it, dropping it to the ground with as much force as he could manage. Using Koldovstvo, he fused stone to stone, the column warping and bending, pinning the snake to the solid stone floor, its body and tail coiling, trying to push, pull, or lift itself free. Drast could feel the stone of the column cracking and breaking. He used stone magic to mend the rock as fast as he could.
“I cannot hold it for long!” he shouted, moving to hover above the snake.
“What is the plan now?” Tyran asked.
If you were not ignoring me, I might suggest blinding it.
“Blind it,” Drast answered, groaning under the strain of holding Osiscica in place.
“It is blind!” Tyran growled.
“Its tongue, Tyran.” Drast grunted in exasperation. “Its creepy, bifurcated tongue!”
Tyran zipped down and quickly latched onto the snake’s tongue with Koldovstvo. With a deep-throated growl, he stretched it out between its scaled lips. “What now?”
Drast looked around and saw little besides Erzebeth floating uselessly and Kowin shuffling a step closer with a bemused look on his face.
Sword?
Drast nodded. “I know.”
Dropping in front of the snake, he reached behind him with Koldovstvo and yanked one of Kowin’s swords from its sheathe to his hand. In one smooth motion, he swung up and over, cleaving the tongue in twain.
Osiscica reeled, shattering the stone column that pinned it, a large piece striking Drast and sending him skidding back, the sword readied in his hand. The Alatir Stone reduced the impact to nothing more than pain. Severe pain, but fleeting pain nonetheless.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadow of the snake slither close. He rolled clear and sprang to his feet, but by the time he turned around, Osiscica was gone.
Tyran was staggering toward him, bleeding from a gash on the side of his head.
Drast tossed the Alatir Stone to him, hobbling forward. “Where did she go?”
“Away.” Tyran grunted, catching the stone and throwing it back. “We have some time to recover. Hang on to the stone for a moment.” He rumbled in his throat, watching Drast catch the stone. “Nine Lands, what does it take to kill that thing?”
Kowin approached, ruthlessly ripping his sword from Drast’s hand. “Do not touch my sword.”
You would think you grabbed his bits.
Drast giggled, wheezing from exhaustion. “I just wanted to know what it was like holding a god’s sword, if you follow me. It was heavier than I thought it would be, but certainly shorter. I nearly missed my target.”
Kowin glowered, sheathing his weapon.
“Do you ever have that trouble, god?” Drast spat snake blood at the ground. “Pulling out your sword, ready to go to work, and missing the mark?”
“Watch yourself, mortal, or I will be the one who finally cuts out your tongue,” Kowin threatened.
“I dare you to try.” Drast stormed forward to throw another insult in the god’s face and abruptly halted when Kowin vanished from sight. “Where did he go?”
Chapter XXI
“Did he really flee to Aenar?” Tyran demanded, fury beating in his chest. If anyone had answered him immediately, he would have missed it. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his anger intensified by the wound on his head. With a growl, he hit a rock column with his open palm, ignoring the sting that burned into his wrist. “Nine Lands! The coward! I will kill him.”
Drast did not respond, running his ghostly hand through his red hair and visibly biting his inner lip. He slowly approached Kam’s bloodied and naked body, eyeing the Alatir Stone in his left hand. “I did not think she would die. She was not supposed to die. Not yet, anyway.”
He paused, hovering the artifact over her body as though he was not sure what to do. He touched her hand with his glimmering sapphire-colored fingertips.
“The stone will not help her,” Erzebeth said, hovering inches in front of Drast. The Vucari shimmered in the churning greyish-blue film as it filtered through her wraith-like figure. The only light in Heshayol came from her jade-colored essence. “She is beyond reprieve.”
Drast glared at Erzebeth with a look that suggested he knew as much, considering Kam’s shattered skull against the rock. Her blood and brains were difficult to miss, emptied beneath his feet. He grasped the stone in his fist, all white light fading from his eyes as he squeezed shut his eyelids. “We can resurrect a god, but not a skin-switcher? The girl must be lingering around the Netherworld somewhere. I say we find her and bring her back so she can resurrect Wolos. That was her charge. She said so herself.”
“She is dead,” Erzebeth said. “The process of bringing her back from the dead would be the same as resurrecting Wolos. One of you would have to sacrifice yourself to see her breathe again. The journey would be pointless, and you do not have the time.”
Drast cursed.
Tyran breathed heavily, turning around as though some other answer might reveal itself. His anger distorted his vision; his ire was unyielding. He found little to ease his mind. The destruction of the inner building was obvious, with mountainous pillars of rock scattered in all directions and the dead Warden lying among the rubble.
He yelled in frustration.
“All this power, and we can do nothing?” Drast tried again, opening his eyes. He revealed the few thoughts Tyran could not seem to put into words. “This stone must have something more it can do,” Drast said, lifting Alatir to Erzebeth, “or the one in Tyran’s pocket, the Ojenek.”
“Neither can raise the dead. Alatir heals and Ojenek unlocks. You were wise to keep the latter safe from Kowin.”
Tyran stuffed his hand into his pocket, gripping the blue stone, the key to Wolos’s prison.
“We have to do something!” Drast barked, a grin fighting to split his lips.
The undead Vucari was expressionless. “The Warden is dead, young Red. We can do nothing but go deeper into Heshayol. Wolos is all that matters now. He must be reborn before Kowin frees himself.”
“How so?” Tyran spoke between his few gritted teeth. Blood oozed down the side of his face. His stomach rumbled from hunger. He already knew the answer to his rhetorical question. “You want one of us to sacrifice our life for Wolos because he needs to take a living spirit to walk over the Kalinov Bridge, right?”
“Yes,” Erzebeth said.
“Have the pantheon force Kowin to do it. They have his spirit locked away,” Tyran said.
“The gods cannot send their creator to die,” Erzebeth said. “They would rather die themselves than ask him to sacrifice himself.”
Drast cried out, “Then have one of them come sacrifice themselves!”
“That would not help restore balance. We would be no better off than we are now,” she replied.
“Tell the pantheon to kill Kowin,” Drast said, holding his laughter back. “I know. I know.”
Erzebeth replied, “The pantheon cannot destroy anything. They have not the power.”
“He wants to kill them,” Drast argued out loud, though Tyran was no longer certain if his brother was speaking with Erzebeth or himself.
“Which would be no better or worse than before they were created. They are beings made to keep the cycles of the world, to maintain a specific order,” Erzebeth said. “They do not have the capacity to understand the worth of what we call life.”
Tyran huffed. “Because they do not see any difference between life and death.”
“They are immortal,” confirmed Erzebeth. “Regardless, the world was not broken by a god or an immortal. It was undone by mortals and must be fixed by mortals.”
The smile drained from Drast’s face. “We know, skin-switcher! Go away.”
“We must discuss this, Drast,” Tyran said. “I will—”
“You will not!” Drast shouted, staring at the ground, unable to meet his brother’s gaze.
“I have to. If I—”
“You do not have to do anything,” Drast growled. He swallowed. “When it comes down to it, I will.”
Tyran grunted as if he had been punched in the gut. Silence ruled for a time while Tyran searched for an appropriate response. Eventually he found the words, his voice thick. “You do not need to do this, Drast. I do not think I can handle that. I thought...well, I thought you were not coming out of that snake alive. I cannot do that again.”
Drast glanced at his brother. He looked winded. “I had the stone.”
“Still—”
Drast spat blood. “You have a chance at a life that I cannot have, and so I will do what needs to be done. I am broken,” he raised his stump, “and I know I am insane. We will see Wolos reborn.” Drast stood upright. He looked off in the distance for a moment. He nodded his head and smiled wide. “I will make the exchange.”
