Eldritch, p.8
Eldritch, page 8
“Strike them.”
Nodding, I threw my hand out. Nothing but bones flew from my palm, clattering to a pile on the snow.
“Focus! I can’t hold them suspended for eternity!”
I threw my hand out again and felt a thump of pressure against my palm, as the whip snapped outward then retracted back. “Ha! I did it!”
“Shall I release them, then?”
“No!” Fear lashed through me at the thought of him setting those things loose.
“Then, try again.” The strain in his voice set my nerves trembling.
I stared back at them, the vague recognition of Mr. Primsley and his wife, Diana, peering through that grotesque form. They’d owned the bakery in town, and while they’d never gone out of their way to be kind to me, they’d certainly never been cruel.
Again, I raised my hand, trembling harder than before, and focused on the glyph in my head. The whip flew from my palm, snapping just short of the creatures.
“Stop looking at them as human. Imagine what they’ll do to you if I set them free right now. Imagine what they’d do to Aleysia.”
Aleysia.
A spark of anger lit my blood at the thought of Mr. Primsley’s teeth tearing into her flesh. Snarling, I threw out my hand again on a growl.
The whip struck one of his legs, and it burst into a plume of broken chitin.
A thrill of victory washed over me, and I hopped on a squeal. “I did it!”
“Do it again,” Zevander ordered, clearly unimpressed.
Muttering a quiet complaint, I thrust my palm forward again, and that time, it struck the broad side of the creature’s torso.
A crackling sound had me searching for the site of impact. Seconds later, it exploded into a mess of flesh and blood that spattered onto my face and clothes.
Hands held out to the side, I stared down at myself and sighed. “Revolting.”
“Head toward the cabin,” Zevander demanded, ignoring my disgust. “I want you to have a better head start. I’m not going to use my power. No matter what happens. You will need to rely on yours.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Well, we don’t have a choice now. Go!”
I awkwardly darted through the snow back toward the cabin.
“Maevyth!”
I swung around in time to see the spider barreling toward me faster than before, and Zevander hobbling after it. Wounded?
My heart shivered behind my ribs. With the vision of Aleysia still fresh in my mind, I threw out my hand, the bone whip spilling out of my palm onto the ground.
A whimper of panic gurgled in my throat, and I retracted my hand, the beast only a few feet away. One hard thrust of Aeryz widened the space and knocked the creature onto its hind legs. It recovered quickly, but instead of heading toward me, to my horror, it turned toward Zevander.
No.
“Fuck,” I heard him mutter, and he backed up a step. “I’m not going use my power, Maevyth. If anyone is going to stop this, it’s you.”
Rings of hot panic coiled in my chest. “That’s too much pressure! Call on your flame! Please!”
“Absolutely not,” he said, backing himself in the other direction, as the creature slowly stalked toward him, as if biding its time.
It pounced on top of him, and a wild scream shot out of me. “Zevander!” I ran toward them, swallowing back the acids rising in my throat as the creature snapped its jaws at his face.
I thrust out my hand, and the whip floundered through the air, landing ungraciously in the snow. “Damn it!”
“Focus!” Zevander barked in a strained voice. “Her teeth are awfully sharp, in case you hadn’t noticed!”
Closing my eyes, I imagined the glyph clear in my head. When I opened them, I threw my hand out on a violent burst of energy. Power surged in my veins as I hurled the tapered end of the whip toward the unwitting beast, satisfied when it snapped against the creature’s body. In the next breath, it exploded over Zevander, the chunks of flesh falling on top of him. He snapped his head to the side, lips tight, as a large clot of blood splashed across his throat.
All was calm again.
“Had I known that today’s lesson was going to involve risking my life, I would have told you to go to hell.”
He sat up, tossing off steaming bits of Mrs. Primsley’s entrails from his chest and legs, then spat blood into the snow. “How else do you learn instincts?”
“Know that if you ever try to kiss me again, I will only ever see Mrs. Primsley’s bloody bits on your lips.”
He let out a chuckle, scooping up a handful of mostly clean snow and ran it over his mouth. “Then, you do intend to let me kiss you.”
“At this point, you would have to scour your lips in lyme. And, even then, I don’t know if I could imagine anything else.”
He pushed to his feet. “Perhaps that’s your next lesson. How to avoid my kiss without killing me with your whip.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His brow kicked up, lips pulling to a half-smile. “Only one way to learn instincts.”
I bit back the urge to laugh and spun around on my heel, racing across the snow toward the cabin. While my head chided me not to indulge in his flirtations, my body moved on its own, reveling in the fun of it. A quick glance over my shoulder showed him chasing after me, gaining speed despite his bulky body, and a squeal of a laugh escaped me. When I snapped my attention forward again, a figure ahead of me brought me to a grinding halt.
My boots slid across the snow, and I tumbled to the ground. There, only a few feet away from me, stood Uncle Riftyn, half his face torn away, the raw flesh glistening at me like a nightmare.
“Maevyth!” Zevander called out to me from behind before crashing into the snow at my side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
With a trembling hand, I pointed.
Zevander’s gaze followed the path of my finger. “What?”
“Do you not see him?”
“See who?”
Uncle Riftyn stood silent, tipping his head as he watched me.
Frowning, I glanced at Zevander, and when I looked back, Uncle Riftyn was no longer there.
“Who do you see?”
Screwing my eyes shut, I shook my head. “No one. It was no one.”
“You were certain only a moment ago.”
“I…saw my uncle.”
“You said he burned in the fire.”
“Not that one, though both are dead. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I’m terrorized by his burnt form.”
“You see the dead.”
I nodded. “I thought it was from having been ill. I didn’t see much of the dead when I was in Aethyria.” I released a shuddering breath, recalling the last time I’d seen Uncle Riftyn alive. “I watched the beast in the woods tear the skin from his bones.” I stared off, lost in that horror all over again. “I’ve seen awful things in my life, but that is a memory I won’t soon forget.”
Zevander’s warm palm met my skin as a soothing balm, while he rubbed his hand down the length of my arm, chasing away the chill. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”
After having checked on Aleysia, who appeared to have not moved a muscle, I entered the main room of the hovel in time to see Zevander peel off his tunic, leaving his body coated in blood and stringing bits of gore. He poured a warm kettle of water I’d heated into the washbasin and dunked his head in the water.
Pangs of yearning needled me and I quietly sighed, watching the way his back muscles contracted with his abrupt movements. How magnificently his broad shoulders tapered down to a fit and trim waist—one I’d had pressed against me not long ago.
Bigger concerns, Maevyth, I chided myself and cleared my throat.
He fished out a rag from a nearby drawer and stood upright, slicking his hair back with the palm of his hand. The sight of him fluttered my stomach, regardless of the stubborn gore that still clung to his face and chest.
He wrinkled his nose, staring down at himself. “What I wouldn’t give for a proper warm bath.”
Smiling, I stalked toward him and snatched the cloth. After dipping it in the basin, I dragged it over the slick red coating across his collarbone. An angry patch of red at the base of his neck caught my eye, and when I ran the cloth over it, he let out a grunt. “What is this?”
“Seems their saliva is a bit acidic.”
I exhaled a remorseful breath. “I’m sorry. I should’ve reacted sooner. I hesitated.”
“You’ll learn.”
“I don’t want to learn at your expense.”
“A small scratch isn’t going to kill me.”
“No, but those teeth came awfully close to your face.”
“Worried about marring this handsomeness?”
When he sneered alongside his comment, I wanted to tell him that not even the wretched black scar across his cheek, nor the blood of Mrs. Primsley, could make him less attractive. I wanted to tell him he was the most devastating man I’d ever laid eyes on, and that I would have, in fact, kissed him, in spite of the bits of gore clinging to his cheek.
Instead, I gave a small smile. “Is it possible that we might train again without a rush of adrenaline?”
“That depends on you. Have you learned to accept that warding off an attack doesn’t require apologies over tea afterward?”
“Are you telling me that you’ve no intention of making me a cup of tea?”
Snorting, he swiped the cloth out of my hands and dragged the freshly-dipped rag across his tight abdomen, where faint scars begged to be kissed. “I’ll spare you the grief of drinking whatever awful concoction I might’ve scrounged.”
“To answer your question. Yes. I think I’ve found a way of casting aside my empathy.”
“How so.”
“Recalling that spider atop of you. How scared I was in that moment. How powerful the urge to kill it.”
He stared down at me, the smirk on his lips enticing enough to kiss, if I were so bold right then. “I know that feeling well.”
“Then, we’ll resume tomorrow. Early morning.”
“Early morning.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAZHIMYR
Four days ago …
Afiery thirst scorched Kazhimyr’s throat, the chains around his wrists biting into his flesh. Suppression of his blood magic always made him thirsty, and the agony of fresh wounds reminded him that his body was slow to heal without his power. The stench of old piss and rot clogged his nose, while a copper flavor burned across his tongue. For hours, he and Ravezio had been beaten, fed ungodly amounts of Nilmirth, and endured hours of interrogations into the whereabouts of both Zevander and Dolion.
Captain Zivant of King Sagaerin’s guard paced in front of Kazhimyr, who hung limp from his shackles, each clap of the haughty bone-licker’s shiny boots counting down the seconds to his impatience. “Dolion was seen by a number of my men after Princess Calisza’s Becoming Ceremony.”
“I have told you…countless times. I never…saw Dolion.”
“But you have seen him alive since the time Zevander claimed to have killed him.”
The fucking Nilmirth he’d been forced to consume had caused him to spill that bit of information, otherwise he’d have denied it to his face.
“As we speak, I have a half-dozen of my men on their way to Eidolon now, but it is my gut instinct that they won’t find either one of them there.”
Kazhimyr snorted. “Then, why waste the trip?”
A splintering pain cracked against his cheekbone, when the captain’s fist plowed into his cheek, kicking Kazhimyr’s head to the side on a spray of blood. “I knew I should’ve urged the king to let you rot in that Solassion prison. Every one of you.”
“And miss the bitter resentment you’ve worn on your face every day since? Not a chance.”
The captain drew back his arm for another punch.
“Captain Zivant!” a voice called out, and he lowered his fist. The king’s scrawny cupbearer, perhaps no more than nineteen years old, stood bent over, hands to his knees, as if he’d just galloped from the far reaches of Draconysia. “The king requests your presence with haste,” he wheezed.
“Tell him I’m interrogating our traitorous assassins.”
“Sir, he insists you come right away!”
The captain bared his teeth. “I’m busy at the moment. Let the king know!”
“King Jeret and his men have left the castle. Prince Dorjan is missing, Sir!”
Zivant’s brows lowered, and he turned slowly toward the cupbearer. “Stay with them. I will send a guard.”
The boy’s eyes damned near flew from their sockets. “Me? I’m happy to fetch a guard for you.”
“They cannot be left alone.” The captain swiped up the fire iron propped against the wall that he’d used to burn Ravezio earlier, and the memory of his fellow Letalisz’s suffering stirred a lethal rage in Kazhimyr. “Do not go near them. And if they should try anything, stab them.” He shoved the iron at the boy’s chest. “I’ll send for a guard quickly.”
On those parting words, Captain Zivant hurried out of the inquisition chamber—nothing more than a vast brick alcove with various torture devices—leaving the trembling cupbearer alone with Kazhimyr and Ravezio.
“Can I get some water?” Kazhimyr said in a hoarse voice, and the boy peered to the left of him, likely praying a guard would arrive soon. “Please. I don’t mean you any harm.”
The boy’s throat bobbed with a swallow, and he glanced around, fingers fidgeting when he stared toward a bucket just a few paces away. Perhaps gauging whether, or not, that heavy iron ladle could’ve been used as a weapon. Another second more of contemplation, and he scampered toward it. After scooping the water, he took slow and measured steps toward Kazhimyr, his arm trembling just enough to splash the fluids onto the floor.
Kazhimyr tipped his head back, allowing the boy to pour the water into his mouth. The fluid damned near sizzled as it traveled down his throat. But he was grateful for it. “Perhaps you might fetch some for my friend, as well.”
The boy, undoubtedly more confident with that request, seeing as Ravezio was in far worse shape, gave a nod and dipped the ladle into the bucket for more water. He crossed the room to where the other Letalisz also hung limp against the brick wall, wrists shackled and skin glistening raw where he’d been burned and cut earlier.
“Sir?” the boy said as he lifted the ladle to Ravezio’s face. “Would you like a sip of water?”
Ravezio tipped his head back, and just as the boy was about to pour the water into his mouth, the Letalisz spat blood in his face.
An agonized sound echoed through the ancient brick walls as the boy fell to his knees, dropping the ladle to the floor.
Ravezio acted quickly, toeing the ladle close, its heavy iron surface scraping over the stone floor, then he balanced it on the tip of his bare foot before kicking it up into the air, just high enough that he caught it in his shackled hand.
Kazhimyr snorted. “I see you’ve been practicing your Circ Lunae moves?”
A smile slipped across Ravezio’s face, making him seem far less bothered by his injuries than he first appeared. “Women love a flexible lover. Ask your mother.” Using the handle’s sharp end that ordinarily hooked onto the bucket, he drew his arms together and wedged the pointed end into the lock of his shackles. His muscles shook as he held tight to the bowl of the ladle, until it finally snapped, breaking the locking mechanism.
“I might be insulted by that, if my mother wasn’t a vile sootwench who threw me to a hungry pack of dogs when I was only ten years old. So, if you’re trying to make me retch, you’re doing a damned fine job of it.”
Ravezio chuckled, and both men looked down when the boy let out a quiet whimper. Blood leaked out of his eyes and nose, his body twitching as the venom finished him off.
Kazhimyr clicked his tongue. “Poor bastard. Likely never got his dick wet before you snuffed him. With a ladle, no less. Embarrassing.”
“Better than the candlestick I used to kill the last one.” The sound of heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor, and Ravezio hurried over to Kazhimyr, shoving the ladle into the lock of his shackles, breaking it as easily as he had his own. Once free, both men hustled toward where their clothes had been discarded just before their torture and dressed quickly. They slipped past the boy’s lifeless body toward the corridor.
Kazhimyr peered around the corner, catching flickers of shadows on the wall from guards marching down the adjacent hallway. The two of them exited the bloodstained chamber room into the shadowy corridor. Without so much as a glance back, they kept on through the winding maze of cell-lined passages that made up the castle’s undercroft.
Shouts erupted from behind—likely from the guards becoming aware of their escape. As they approached the curve in the passageway, the two slinked into the shadows of a small alcove beside an unlit brazier, pressing themselves against the stone wall.
Hushed conversation reached Kazhimyr’s ears, and he listened to what he was certain was Captain Zivant’s voice. The mere sound of it ground his nerves.
“The king has demanded that we send half of our men after King Jeret.”
“Our men are doing their best to tame an angry crowd of spindlings and Nilivir, who could very well breach the castle grounds!” That voice sounded like Zivant’s second in command—one of Kazhimyr’s tormentors.
“As I understand, a number of Solassions were left behind. I want them rounded up and thrown into Bonesguard. As for the mob, you have my authority to employ brute force, if necessary.” There was no mistaking the implication in Zivant’s words—kill anyone who resisted. “I’ll only be taking a few hundred men after King Jeret and the prince. The Solassions are traveling through unfamiliar landscape, which will give us the advantage, until they reach the Primmian Sea.”
“We could call on our vassals in Veneficarys to accompany you.” That voice bore the distinct articulation of King Sagaerin’s closest advisor, Lord Belthane.
