Page 5

The Urr’ki turns and looks at me. He frowns, tension in his jaw and shoulders too. He stays in place, not coming closer, but not leaving. Outside the door are distant voices and he tilts his head as if he can hear what they are saying.

“I must go,” he says so softly it’s barely a whisper.

“Your name, what’s your name?” I hate the desperation in my voice but it’s there and not a damn thing I can do about it.

He rumbles. Or grumbles. Or almost roars. I don’t know, it’s a deep sound. So deep I feel it in my bones as much as I hear it with my ears. He closes his eyes, glances at the door, then he takes a quick step and he’s bending over, his lips close to my ear. The warmth of his breath brushes my skin making me shiver.

“Z’leni,” he says, then just as quickly he moves right out the door and it clangs shut behind him.

Z’leni. His name. A thread of connection, fragile and trembling between us.

My skin quickly cools where his breath warmed it but in my head there is a burning sensation. He was so close and damn it affected me. It’s probably the stress. Stress and fear. Some last instinct to try and survive by any means necessary. That’s what it must be… why else would my thoughts go to his lips?

As my skin cools it’s somehow worse than ever. Silence is an assault on my senses. I strain, hoping to hear something. Grasping for some kind of hope. I stand, walk to the door, and grasp the bars. I have to pull myself up to see through them.

The tunnel outside is empty. Not even a guard. I guess they don’t need one. The bars are almost as thick as my wrist and the door they’re set into is also made of iron. A torch flickers across the hall.

My fingers ache from gripping the bars too tightly, but I don’t let go. Desperate to not be alone. It feels like if I let go I’m giving up. Admitting that I’m screwed. Alone and without hope.

That’s when I hear it.

Footsteps. Soft, followed by a tap, then a dragging sound. Tap. Drag. Tap. Drag. It’s not the heavy boots of a warrior or the clumsy gait of the guards who brought me here. No, this is something worse. A chill trails down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck rise before my brain catches up.

I let go of the bars and take a stumbling step back, the throbbing in my ankle blooming like fire through my leg. I don’t care. I press myself to the far wall, heart racing, eyes glued to the barred window in the door.

The sound stops outside the door but I don’t see the source. Something rattles. Keys? It must be keys. Metal rasps against metal then there is a loud click and the door silently opens. The full light of the torch barely pierces the shadows of the room but it does backlight the figure. It’s small for an Urr’ki. A bent and twisted looking shape.

Tap. Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle. The figure moves into the cell.

Small or not it seems to suck up all the air. I can’t catch my breath. There’s a pressure on my chest and I know, without even a shadow of a doubt, this is him.

The Shaman.

A glint of something — teeth? Eyes? — catches the torchlight. He leans heavily on a walking stick and a lump rises off his back. Then he steps fully into view.

His face is gaunt, eyes sunken and hollow. He has dark skin and a malicious smile that slowly curves across his face. He doesn’t even close the door; he looks straight at me.

“Little moth,” he murmurs, voice low and coated with venomous sweetness. “I told them you would still be awake.”

I freeze, like prey. The kind of stillness born of pure, ice-cold fear.

He glides closer. Tap. Shuffle. Grunt.

“You’re wondering why you’re still breathing,” he says, the words like silk-wrapped daggers. “Why I haven’t had you ripped apart.” My mouth is too dry to speak, but that doesn’t stop him. “The truth is simple. You serve a purpose, one that is not yet fulfilled.”

“Purpose?” I say, my voice cracking.

His smile twists and he chuckles. His tone is somehow colder, cutting through the air like a knife.

“Do not mistake usefulness for mercy.”

His tongue slips between his lips, running over them in a disgusting way. His eyes gleam then he smiles, revealing broken, rotting teeth.

“Your end is written. The only question is whether it comes quickly or... if it will be drawn out.” He leans forward until his face fills my vision. “You should pray to whatever of your gods you think still care. Because when your role is complete, they won’t be able to save you.”

Then, with a final glance and a flash of broken, rotting teeth, he turns and disappears through the door. The key turns and the resounding click causes my knees to give out. I crumple to the cold, hard floor.

“Shit,” I whisper, shaking. I still hear the echo of his tap, shuffle fading into silence.