Eldritch, p.28
Eldritch, page 28
A scream of wild terror echoed through the room, her eyes wide with the kind of unbridled fear he’d never seen before. “A blade to my throat!” she screamed. “I want to die with a blade!”
Whatever dwelled in that pit was apparently worse than death.
“You don’t get to choose.” Loyce gave one hard shove from behind, and Vaelora let out a gut-wrenching scream as she fell forward.
Madness seized Zevander’s muscles, and in one quick strike, he spun around, jabbing his fingers into the soft flesh that covered the orgoth’s vitaelis vein. He gripped hard and tore away the throbbing vein, so that blood spouted down his hands.
Once free, Zevander darted for the pit and jumped in feet-first.
He hadn’t even measured the depth, so he came crashing down onto the gravely floor with a hard thud that buckled his knees. From what must’ve been twelve meters overhead, faces peered in on him, Theron among them.
Pain throbbed in Zevander’s legs as he pushed to his feet.
Whimpers reached his ears, and he turned to find Vaelora in a defensive stance, holding a rock in one hand. Beyond her, stood three wide caves, their gaping entrances surrounded by thick roots, and nothing but darkness within.
A long pole slipped down from above, its tip attached to a flaming bundle of kindling. The pole handler lit one of the stone sconces on the wall, illuminating the dim cavern.
Zevander darted forward for the pole, just missing it before the handler raised it back toward the surface. He quietly growled and twisted around to see Vaelora’s panicked expression.
“This is where she keeps her pets,” she whispered.
Enormous squiggly lines smudged into the cave sand, the width of each half his height, gave some indication of their size.
Small enough to be contained within the cavern, but large enough for Zevander to be concerned.
“I watched them once. Dragged another slave off. I don’t know what they did with her—”
“It used her,” Loyce interrupted from above. “Charnelyths are very practical creatures. They don’t just kill for the sake of killing, or for food. No, they’re far more resourceful.” She hiked her boot up onto the edge of the pit and sipped her wine. “When they clamp their teeth into your flesh, they release a venom, so that by the time they drag you back to their nests, you’re completely paralyzed. At that point, the female will deposit her eggs inside of you. The male, of course, will fertilize them, as they do. And like good parents, the two will keep you well fed on whatever they manage to scrounge up. Decayed human meat. Rats. Insects. And when the babies are finally ready to hatch, they will claw their way out of the eggs and tear through your body, consuming your flesh as their first meal.”
A deep, guttural growl reverberated off the cave walls, and Vaelora choked on a sob. Her hands shook as she clutched the rock.
“As for you, Zevander, they’ll wrangle you to the ground and decapitate you. Your body will feed their colony, but they’ll keep your head as a sort of trophy.”
Another growl, that one pitching to a roar, alerted that the beast was closer.
Zevander glanced around for a weapon, but all he could find was a rock, slightly smaller than the one Vaelora clutched. Wrists still shackled together, he tore his mask and horns away, and focused his attention on the three caverns. As he waited for the beasts to emerge, he couldn’t help but be grateful for whatever Theron may have done to restore his senses, despite wanting to rip the betraying bastard’s throat out.
“Promise me something …” Vaelora spoke low, her voice quivering like a candle in a drafty corridor. “Should you ever leave this place and cross paths with my brother…tell him I love him.”
“Enough of that. You’re getting out of here.”
At first, the only sound was their panting breaths, but then a loud, grating scrape and thunk, scrape and thunk sent him searching for the source. Could’ve come from any one of the caves.
Or all of them.
He tugged on Vaelora’s shoulder, and she flinched. “Get behind me.”
She scampered around to his back, her nails digging into his side as she clutched him.
The first charnelyth slid forward and the crowd overhead erupted into gasps and cheers. The creature had the body of a snake, with thorns and thick scales, but its head was like that of a dragon, broad and angular, with deep ridges over its serpentine eyes that gave a menacing glare. The flicker of its tongue reminded him of the vicious cobras he’d learned of, that dwelled in the Eremician deserts.
Adrenaline surging, Zevander searched the beast’s form for any sign of a weakness, but every inch of it was scaled with what he imagined to be thick, rough skin.
Impenetrable.
From its top lip protruded two long tusks instead of fangs, their tips sharp and pointed for piercing. If he could tear one away, he might be able to stab it, just as he had with the orgoth. Yes, he was certain that would be the way to defeat it.
The creature let out another roar and slithered toward him. It drew back for a strike, and Zevander pushed Vaelora to the ground then dove to the side, narrowly missing those long, serrated tusks that jabbed into the dirt. A plume of dust exploded into the air, and Vaelora let out shriek, kicking away from the narrow escape.
The whole pit shook with a loud bellow as the charnelyth rose up, its eyes more menacing than before and blazing with malice.
They locked onto Vaelora.
Zevander’s mind churned, eyes searching for a way to wound it, somehow. The beast’s tail slammed into the wall of the cavern, breaking loose shards of rock, and Zevander eyed a long, spear-like piece of it lying just behind it. To get to it, he’d have to abandon Vaelora for a moment, but if he could somehow pierce the creature, it might distract it.
Maybe even kill it.
He lurched for the weapon, but stopped short when the charnelyth hissed, it’s long, red tongue lashing out at him. It struck like a whip against his arm, slicing across his flesh with a hot streak of pain.
“Fucking hell!” Zevander gripped his shoulder, backing himself away. He turned to Vaelora, who stood trembling, her face twisted into a silent sob. “When I give you the signal, I want you to run behind it!”
“What? No!”
“Trust me, Vaelora!” Zevander growled. “I will not let it take you!”
“Promise me. Promise me you won’t let me die in its nest.”
“I promise you.” Taking deep breaths through his nose, Zevander focused on the spear. “At my command …” He rolled his shoulders back.
Without warning, the beast drew back, fangs gleaming, and struck fast.
“Now!”
Zevander pivoted to the side and darted forward for the spear. He swiped it up quickly. As the beast turned for Vaelora, Zevander plunged the tip of the spear into his body, cutting through its scales like a hot blade.
It roared and hissed and thrashed in a vicious rage, but Zevander held tight to the weapon and dragged it up the length of its soft underside. Vaelora’s screams echoed around him, but he remained determined to kill it, and pulled on the edges of its deadly gash, spilling its entrails to hasten its death.
Blood and rancid-smelling viscera poured onto the ground, pooling around his feet. The beast teetered, let out another roar, then collapsed. It convulsed, eyes bulging, and let out one more violent tremor before it finally stilled.
A surge of adrenaline shot through him, the elation of victory sending a cold rush to his muscles.
Zevander snapped his gaze to Vaelora, and tendrils of dread climbed up his spine.
Her lower body was hidden in the mouth of another enormous charnelyth, and eyes blazing with terror, she reached out for him. “Your wrist!” she screamed. “The poison! Please!”
Zevander lurched for her, but intense pressure at his throat threw his feet out from under him, and he clutched a noose that’d been tied around his neck without him knowing.
Vaelora let out a gut-wrenching scream, and in the next breath, she was yanked into the black cave behind her.
One heave threw Zevander backward and trapped the air in his lungs as his spine slammed into the rock wall. From one of the caves, he saw two glowing eyes watching him. Zevander clawed at the bind, gasping and wheezing. Sharp stone scraped against his back, as he was hoisted upward by his neck. The pressure intensified, the noose cinching his windpipe. He opened his mouth, but could neither inhale, nor exhale.
The beast charged forward, snapping its tusks, just missing Zevander’s thrashing legs. He clawed at the rope biting into his throat, and another hard tug lifted him higher.
The charnelyth below him snapped its tusks again, that time, piercing his thigh.
He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t make so much as a sound, while the creature shook its head to get loose, thrashing his limb like a hooked fish.
Pain vibrated through Zevander’s bones, and a cold numbing sensation crawled from his legs up into his chest, spreading across his lungs. His vision narrowed, the blackness on the fringes closing in.
Until, at last, he let it take him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ZEVANDER
Zevander frowned, clutching his throat where a phantom ache lingered. Memories curled around his mind like barbed vines.
Golden skin. A dark pit. Screams. Horrible screams. An enormous serpent. Vaelora’s terrified eyes.
He squeezed his own eyes shut, the tension burning in his face as he fought to unsee that final image lingering in his mind. Zevander shook his head, desperate to relieve himself of it, but it remained there, branded in his thoughts.
Her hand reaching out for him.
Help me.
His eyes shot open, and he inhaled a sharp breath. Distraction. He needed distraction. He lifted his gaze to the surroundings. Dark, almost black, cobblestone streets, sparsely populated with only a few villagers. Rain clouds looming overhead. A stretch of small shops at either side of the road, leading up to the town square and a stone fountain.
Caligorya, he suspected, but he saw no sign of Alastor. Perhaps he’d been slipped an elixir to have arrived without invitation.
Standing outside of a seamstress shop, the girl he recognized held a basket at the crook of her elbow, her long, midnight hair dancing over her shoulders. She carried herself with a mystical grace, reminiscent of the moon goddesses he’d studied back home, as if she’d stepped out from the pages of those sacred texts. Lunamiskza. The beautiful moon witch about whom he so often dreamed.
An overwhelming feeling of warmth surged through him, and he drew closer to her, desperate for that comforting embrace of familiarity she exuded. Zevander intended only to observe, to remain there for a while.
He couldn’t stand to imagine his reality.
No, it was safer in Caligorya.
With her.
A white cloth covered half the basket dangling from her arm, the other half peeled open, and she stared down toward whatever might’ve been inside, not bothering to look up at anyone passing by.
Curious, Zevander approached from behind, so close he caught a whiff of sweet citrus. He couldn’t recall many scents from Caligorya, but hers was distinct. Memorable. Like the fresh, ripe starshade fruit his mother sometimes brought home from the market. A strong citrus tempered by sweet vanilla that he used to devour.
Peering over her shoulder, Zevander caught sight of a book tucked inside the basket, the pages of which she held open before flipping to the next. He glanced toward an older woman, whose wrinkled face twisted to a grimace as she approached the girl.
The older woman offered a wide berth, stepping into the street, in an effort to avoid her, it seemed.
A gentle breeze caught the errant locks of shiny hair that caressed the girl’s delicate neck. So badly, he wanted to run them through his fingers, to feel the softness of her hair. Instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled her, wishing he could bottle that delicious scent. Lips mere inches from the column of her throat, he dared himself to whisper in her ear. To tell her she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
“Well, look what crawled out of the grave.”
Zevander turned toward a young girl who seemed roughly the same age as her, with light brown, almost sandy colored hair and blue eyes. A boy with similar features walked alongside her, a younger sibling, judging by appearance.
“The lorn,” she spat.
The dark-haired girl quickly covered her hidden book and turned to face them, her expression souring. “I’m in no mood today, Lilleven.”
“Awww, she’s in no mood today,” Lilleven said, turning to her brother, who sneered. “The lorn is having a bad day.” She glanced up toward the shop and back to her, eyes raking over her in appraisal. “What could you possibly want with the seamstress, when the only clothing you’re permitted to wear is the same ugly, black dress you’ve worn your whole life.”
She pressed her lips together. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m waiting on my sister.”
“Oh, yes, the village whore.”
Fists clenched, the girl stepped toward her. “Don’t talk about Aleysia that way.”
“Or what? You’ll turn me into a toad with one of your spells?”
“Why are you so detestable? What have I ever done to you, to earn your hateful attention?”
“You exist.” Lilleven hissed.
“Mother says she should’ve been left by the woods,” the boy beside her taunted, before dragging his tongue over the blue lollipop clutched in his hand. “We’d have been better off.”
“I think she should be burned,” Lilleven sneered.
“You do not want to know what I think of you, Lilleven.”
“Tell me, you wretched witch. Tell me what evil thoughts plague your mind, so my baby brother can hear how awful you are. So awful, not even your own mother wanted you.”
The raven-haired girl’s jaw shifted, as though she chewed on the wicked words. “I long to see you trampled by horses, you terrible beast!” She turned her back to the girl, likely to hide the tears that’d sprung to her eyes.
Zevander smiled at the satisfying visual. Yes, he longed to see that, too. The more he imagined it, the clearer the image grew in his mind.
A savage growl tore from Lilleven’s throat, and teeth bared, she lunged toward the girl. “You ugly witch!”
Zevander shot out his palm for the Aeryz glyph, and the impact knocked her backward, into the street. Shouts and screams drew his attention toward a carriage barreling toward her.
“Lilleven! Watch out!” her brother screamed.
The squelch of squished meat and crushed bone was a harrowing echo beneath the screams of townsfolk.
The rogue carriage, with its two massive horses, trampled the girl.
He glanced back at the other girl, whose face had turned a ghostly pallor, her eyes reminding him of the same fear he’d seen in Vaelora’s.
“What have you done, boy?” At the familiar voice, Zevander twisted around to see Alastor looking on. “What have you done!”
“Nothing. I did not lay hands on her.”
“No.” His lips twisted in disgust. “You imposed your will. You took a life. One must be given.”
“What do you mean, one must be given? It isn’t real. It’s a dream.”
“I told you not to come here without me.”
“I didn’t do it intentionally. Something brought me here.”
Alastor looked skyward, his lip curled back in disgust. “You will leave here. Now.”
“No. What happens to her?”
“Leave now!” Alastor threw out his palms, and a force struck his chest, hurling him into a black void.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ZEVANDER
Present …
The cobblestone road stretched on toward the temple, as Zevander trailed both Maevyth and Aleysia through the village. With a constant sweep of his gaze, back and forth, he maintained a vigilant watch for anything that might’ve charged at them from one of the abandoned shops at either side of the road. All was quiet and still.
Too still.
A heaping glob of white fell from the sky. On instinct, Zevander ground to a halt and reached for the dagger at his side, seconds before it splattered to the ground, only just missing him. When it occurred to him what it was, he snarled, looking upward at the enormous bird dragon that circled overhead. Muttering a curse, he released the dagger and kept on, imagining the size of the arrow he’d have needed to spear the surly shit-sack right out of the sky.
Aleysia interlocked her arm with Maevyth’s, shooting him a glance over her shoulder. One that, had he been more astute, he might’ve considered possessive in nature. Scowling, he turned his attention back to the task of watching for danger, ignoring the niggling instinct that neither Maevyth’s sister, nor the bird dragon, cared for him much.
Movement in his periphery brought him to another stop, and he trailed his gaze over the nearby chandlery, ears strained.
Once again, his hand drifted to the hilt of his blade, as a strange sensation prickled his spine, and he focused, searching for movement through the dark and broken windows.
“What is it?” Maevyth asked, pausing.
A quick glance toward the sky showed Raivox still circling over them. “Keep on to the temple. I’ll meet you there.”
“Zevander …” Maevyth stepped toward him, but seemed to quickly realize something was amiss, because she gave a nod and stepped back. “Okay.”
The two girls hustled toward an old cathedral, with pointed spires and flying buttresses, with the Corvugon following after them, offering a small measure of relief, in spite of Zevander’s dislike for the beast.
A crackling sound swung his attention back to the chandlery, and Zevander drew his sword, stepping lightly as he made his way toward it. Pressed against the edge of the building, he paused to listen again.
Nothing.
A flash of metal was the only warning before the business end of a sword flew toward him, and Zevander ducked just in time to avoid the lopping off of his head.
