Eldritch, p.16
Eldritch, page 16
“Of course.” Without diverting his gaze from the two Letalisz, the stranger waved his hand, and seconds later, the barmaid strolled up. “My friends here would like two new tankards. If you’d be so kind as to indulge.”
The woman was nothing but a shadow in Kazhimyr’s periphery, but her unamused “Of course” told him she was troubled by the request.
“I should’ve known better.” The stranger shrugged. “My apologies.”
“Are you accustomed to listening in on private conversations?”
“Believe me when I say, I’d rather not have heard it.” He sighed, tipping back his tankard and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Sharp hearing is a curse. I suspect finding a good counterfeit bloodmark will be difficult to come by, and should you get caught—the port guards shoot first and ask questions later. Fortunately, I have residency in Calyxar, and I happen to be traveling home.”
The barmaid slammed two tankards down in front of Kazhimyr and Ravezio, and offered a wink to the man across from them, before sauntering off. Gaze trailing after her, Kazhimyr noticed that what few women were present had their attention turned toward the stranger.
“What are your dealings in Susurria?” Ravezio asked.
“Just passing through. Never actually been this far north before.”
“We’re not looking for a traveling companion.” Kazhimyr lifted the tankard, rearing back some at the stench of sour ale, and set it back down on the table.
“You won’t find a mage in all of Nyxteros who can produce a counterfeit as believable as Maelrik. He was sought after by the king for a reason.”
Kazhimyr narrowed his eyes on the stranger. “Well, that’s quite an opinion for someone who isn’t from around here.”
“Been here three nights. Storms in the south kept me holed up here. Small village, you hear things—particularly news of an arrest.” The stranger tugged at one of his pierced, pointed ears, the gesture not escaping Kazhimyr.
He instinctively glanced around, noticing a man staggering out of the tavern.
“And how would you imagine getting us passage?” Ravezio sniffed the drink, crinkled his nose, and shrugged, before tipping back a swallow. He quickly shot forward and spat it back into the tankard—a reaction that Kazhimyr would’ve found amusing, had he not been preoccupied with that tug of the ear.
“It’s an acquired taste,” the stranger said, raising his own tankard for a sip. “In answer to your question, I’m allowed to register three subordinates.”
“Subordinates,” Kazhimyr said, tonelessly. “You’re highblood?”
The stranger leaned in and lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t offer the very risky proposition of smuggling you into Calyxar, if I possessed that kind of coin.”
“How much?” Kazhimyr asked.
“A thousand liro.”
“That’s a lot of coin for little guarantee that you’ll successfully get us into Calyxar.”
The stranger raised a brow. “Paid on successful entry.”
Ravezio sat back, crossing his arms. “How can we be certain you’re telling the truth? That you have residency there?”
His lips pulled into a smile, and he tugged out a scroll bearing a red wax seal. “Because, unlike you two, I have a bloodmark to prove it. If anyone is taking a risk, it’s me. How do I know you’ll pay once you’re there?”
Kazhimyr couldn’t deny that, under the circumstances, with the kings men certain to hunt them down, it seemed there was much less risk on their part. Unless the ship and crew happened to be slavers. “How do you propose transportation?”
“I know a merchant in Wyntertide. My papers say I’m second mate. You would be my subordinates.”
Ravezio sneered at that. “I scrub no decks.”
“It’s not the decks you’d be scrubbing, friend.” The stranger grinned. “All on paper, of course.”
“Let’s see your papers.”
He stared at the two Letalisz for a moment before handing over the bloodmark, and Kazhimyr opened it up, confirming what the man had told them. “Dravien Nokvayne. Elvyniran from Monteszel Province. Your nexumis includes a keen sense of hearing, navigational skills, and the ability to read storms.”
He gave a bow of his head. “You now know more about me than I know about you.”
Kazhimyr handed it back to him. “What if we say no? I suspect you could turn us over for quite a bit of coin.”
The stranger shrugged. “I do not mingle with watchmen. I’ve my own reasons to avoid the law. Should you decide to walk away? Nothing gained, nothing lost.” He lifted his tankard, kicking back a long swill. “I bid you good evening, and as far as I’m concerned, I spoke to no one.”
Kazhimyr chewed on the possibility for a moment. Instincts told him to walk away, but that’d leave them with even fewer choices. “We’re weary from travel. This is not a decision we want to make tonight. We’ll seek you out in the morning.” He didn’t give the stranger a chance to argue, as on those parting words, Kazhimyr and Ravezio stood up from the booth.
“A word of caution, my friend,” the stranger said. “Some seem to think you’re affiliated with King Sagaerin. Overheard them talking about it.” He nodded toward a group of villagers in the corner, who sat glaring back at the two assassins.
“Why ever would they think that?”
“The uprising in Costelwick has stirred a bit of unrest and suspicion in the surrounding villages. Folks don’t appreciate a king who starves his people. While you don’t look like king’s men, you’re strangers here. You may want to find shelter somewhere outside of Susurria. If you’re looking for a place, there’s the old coaching inn just outside of town.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“Of course. I’ll wait to hear from you in the morning.”
Kazhimyr kept his eyes on the burly men as he strode past them and out of the tavern. While taking on multiple opponents at once would be nothing new for the trained assassins, they weren’t interested in drawing attention to themselves. Instead, they quietly slipped out of the tavern—where they found their horses lying in two bloody heaps, still tied to their posts.
Their necks had been slit.
A slow, blinding rage stirred in Kazhimyr’s gut, his blood magic tingling with the need to be turned loose. No doubt, that gesture he’d noticed had played a role in them losing their mounts.
“We’re doing this, aren’t we?” Ravezio asked, and let out a sigh, sliding one of his daggers out of its sheath. “No one slaughters my stead without punishment.”
Kazhimyr yanked his sword from its scabbard and pushed through the door of the tavern. His senses flared, the sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the air. He ducked, yanking Ravezio with him just as a sword sliced toward him, only a hairsbreadth from his head. The attacker, momentarily weaponless, reached for the next blade, but not before Kazhimyr swung out. One quick slash of his enemy’s thigh severed the femoral vein, spilling copious blood onto the tavern floor. The man howled and stumbled away, running into nearby tables.
Behind Kazhimyr, a clang of steel alerted him to Ravezio’s fight with a scraggly-bearded miner whose face was covered in soot. The basilisk on the arm of his fellow Letalisz damn near glowed, begging to turn something to stone.
Another attacker drove forward, right for Kazhimyr, his blade longer. Kazhimyr blocked and parried with a grunt, driving him back into the table behind him. A swift jab into his heart ended the fight quicker than it’d begun.
Heat streaked across his arm, and he turned to see yet another villager slicing into his bicep. Kazhimyr hiked up his boot, kicking the man backward, and carved a diagonal line through his chest, then finished with a horizontal strike across his belly that spilled his entrails onto the floor.
To the right of him, Ravezio fought with what appeared to be his third attacker, given the two bodies that lay bleeding out on the floor.
Again, his senses flared, only seconds before he felt the sharp prod of a blade at his back. One breath and it could’ve pierced his heart. Instead, the deadly tip of it fell away, and Kazhimyr turned to see Dravien yanking his blade from the attacker’s skull.
The body plopped to the floor with a hard thud, and lips thinned, Dravien sighed, wiping the broad side of the blade across the man’s tunic.
“Thanks,” Kazhimyr said, shoving the sword back into its scabbard as he turned back toward the bar, where a half-dozen men lay bleeding out.
“Looks like you’re going to need horses.” Dravien nodded toward the man he’d killed. “So happens, I know where this clotpole’s farm is.”
“You’ll only tell us if we agree to hire you, though, right?”
“That’d make me an unreasonable cunt.” He stood tapping his finger against the pommel of his sword. “But, yeah. You agree, and I’ll take you there.”
A sound of disapproval rumbled in Kazhimyr’s throat, and he twisted around to see Ravezio shrug. “Fine. You get us to Calyxar for a thousand liro.”
“Well, the horses are going to up the ante to a thousand and a quarter, I’m afraid.”
“Fine.” Kazhimyr slammed his fist in the Elvinyran’s face, the force knocking him onto his ass. “That’s for the horses whose throats you had slit. Cunt.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ZEVANDER
Past …
The cold, damp wall pressed into Zevander’s bruised back, as he sat slumped on the gritty floor of his cell, staring off into the darkness.
Alone.
Completely alone in this place.
While he hadn’t seen his father in years, up until a few days ago, he’d always taken comfort in knowing he was there. Seeing his father again had given him a sense of peace and hope—hope that faded the moment he’d heard the pained sound of his mother’s name rip from the elder Rydainn’s throat.
Wrists bound and resting in his lap, he clenched his fists at the memory, the rage pounding through him anew. Finally knowing the truth of his father’s actions, Zevander could no longer bury the agony of his death in hatred and indifference. The pain split through him like a scab being torn open, and he clenched his teeth, swallowing back the urge to break.
The obnoxious creak of the cell door alerted him that someone had come to visit, but he didn’t bother to look up. Surely, it wouldn’t be anyone he’d have called friend, confirmed when the warden said, “Brought your supper.”
The clatter of a tin bowl thrown before him broke his musings, and Zevander turned to see black soot splashed onto the floor.
A malicious chuckle followed. “Was goin’a toss him into the chasm, but thought you might want to pay your final respects. Who’s born of fire now?” Another mocking laugh, and every muscle in Zevander’s body tensed as he stared down at what was presumably his father’s charred remains.
Their laughter died when the heavy thud of boots and metal approached from down the hall, and Zevander looked up to see General Loyce step inside his cell, filling the space with her intimidating form.
“Well, now. The mighty beast who killed the most feared orgoth in Bonegrist. You look far less threatening chained to the floor, don’t you?” The slow and lazy cadence of her steps ended when she stood looming over Zevander like a storm cloud consuming what sliver of light had reached his cell. “Knees, boy.”
Teeth clenched, Zevander didn’t move. He didn’t cower in her presence, or fear the consequences that would inevitably follow his defiance.
“Come on now—rise from the ashes and get on your knees,” the warden taunted beside her, but his laughter cut out abruptly when he turned toward the unamused expression on the general’s face.
Lips twisted, as if the sight of the warden disgusted her, she turned back to Zevander. “I’ll not tell you again. Get on your knees.”
Still, he refused.
A swift kick to his mangled ankle shot a zap of fire up his leg, and Zevander ground his teeth, choking back the agony. No matter what they inflicted, he would never willingly get on his knees for anyone.
“Very well,” she said, as if reading his mind. Moments later, an orgoth stepped toward him. The orgoth whose hands still bore the stains of his father’s blood.
Zevander sat motionless as the beast bent forward to hoist him up, and the second the orgoth was close, he clamped his teeth around the bastard’s pointed ear.
A roar bounced off the walls of the cell, and a hard thump against his chest kicked Zevander back, his tailbone smacking hard against the stone floor.
He winced and turned to his side, as the orgoth stepped back, terror widening the beast’s eyes when he cupped his ear.
Zevander forced a smile, despite the rage tearing through him, and revealed the small piece of flesh between his teeth, before spitting it out at the orgoth.
The beast snarled and lurched again, but General Loyce held out her hand, bringing him to a halt.
“Get him to his knees without crushing him.”
Snarling again, the orgoth held his hand over the chewed and bloody ear and, with the other, gripped the back of Zevander’s neck, the shocks of pain damn near paralyzing as he effortlessly lifted Zevander up to his knees.
“Open your mouth.”
Lips clamped shut, Zevander defied the new order, already knowing the general’s intentions.
“I said, open your mouth!”
Copper lingered on his tongue from biting the orgoth, and he spat it at General Loyce.
Without warning, or direction from the general, the orgoth took hold of his face, his thick, calloused palm pressing against his chin, while the other gripped tight to the top of his head. Jagged flashes of light struck the back of Zevander’s skull, and eyes clenched, he fought the orgoth’s ruthless prying of his jaw.
Dry, charred ashes coated his tongue, the sounds of his angry growls drowned by the laughter of both the warden and the orgoth.
“Now, swallow,” General Loyce said through clenched teeth, not an ounce of amusement in her tone.
Once free of the orgoth’s grip, Zevander coughed, the ash bursting from his mouth as a gray plume of dust. He retched and gagged, spitting the wet soot onto the ground.
The metal of her armor clanked, as General Loyce crouched alongside him. “So much fire and spirit. Oh, how I long to break you.” She brushed a finger across his cheek, and with a grimace, Zevander turned away from her touch. “I leave for Luximos tonight. Have him sent over to me in three days. Preferably bathed.”
“Of course, General.”
She pushed to her feet. “And no more beatings, or I’ll have you chained alongside him.”
“Understood,” the warden grumbled, clearly disappointed.
Without another word, she swiftly left the cell, and Zevander stared down at boot marks stamped onto the floor in his father’s ashes. A fresh wave of rage surged through him.
“You want to know why I loathe your kind?” The warden didn’t spare him the opportunity to answer. “You’re weak. When I told your father I’d pitted you against an orgoth, he cried. Sobbed like a woman. And you…with your diseased face and those infernal-looking eyes.” Lips flattened, he crossed his arms. “Shame about Jagron, though. Was a good sector guard. He relied on the loyalty of his kind. Called them a brotherhood. You think anyone here gives a damn about brotherhood? Power earns loyalty and respect. The more power you wield, the more you’re respected, and you, my friend, are utterly powerless.”
“I’m ready to return to work,” Zevander said through clenched teeth, ignoring him.
“Oh, you won’t be going back to the mines. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to watch you try to outsmart another one of my orgoth friends here, but…seems General Loyce took a liking to you after that fight. She’s requested that you join her Gildona. Her flock of caged birds. Worse than this place, as I understand.” A slow grin crept across his face, revealing a rotting graveyard of brown teeth. “Worse than death.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAEVYTH
Ajarring thud tore me from sleep, and I jolted upright, the reflex knocking my foot against something. The book I’d been reading had fallen off my lap and lay splayed like a broken bird on the floor.
Wind howled against the thin panes of glass, and twisting around in the rocking chair, I noticed the cabin felt too quiet.
“Zevander?” I called out for him, my nerves rattled from the abrupt waking.
Glancing around the room showed no sign of him. Frowning, I pushed to my feet, and a quick sweep of the back bedroom showed no sign of him there, either. When I arrived at Aleysia’s door, I peered inside, hearing no more than her quiet snores on the other side.
Where is he?
Passing the window, I caught sight of a figure on the porch, and my heart shot to my throat. Eyes narrowed, I studied the hulking, shadowy form that blocked out the moon’s light.
Zevander?
I darted across the cabin toward the door and swung it open.
With his back to me, Zevander didn’t move, or even twitch at my presence. I noticed something dangling from his fist. A white rabbit, covered in what I presumed to be blood, though it was too dark to confirm. The frenzied kicking of its legs told me it was still alive.
Slowly, I rounded Zevander’s body, coming to a stop at his side. A dark sheen across his mouth and chin had me questioning if that black glisten was blood smeared across his face, as well. His eyes were fixated on something out in the expanse of the yard, but when I slowly turned to look, I saw nothing.
“Zevander?”
He turned and seemed to look past me, his eyes unfocused and as black as onyx, and as he did so, light from the hovel showed a faint red hue to the glossy mess across his chin. Definitely blood.
“What are you doing?” I asked, frowning.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“Death.”
I let out a shaky breath and turned toward the yard. Dozens of glowing eyes stared back at me. Gasping, I reached out for Zevander’s arm, clutching his bicep. “Come, we have to go inside. Now.”
