Page 7 of A Spell of Bones and Madness (Nostos #2)

Chapter Four

Ander

T he air was foul on his tongue, a mix of rot and decay, of bodies left too long in a damp and chilling space.

It was colder here than where they held him last time.

The brig on the ship had been small, but the stuffiness of being below the waters surrounded by planked wood and dust had kept him warm—it almost made him feel at home, back on his ship.

This dungeon, however, was stale and teeth-chattering, what Ander expected the deepest realm of Aidesian to feel like.

A fire sat in one corner, just out of reach from where they kept his legs chained to the stone bricks of the wall, but the flame gave off no heat, its swirling reds, yellows, and blues sucking the warmth out of the room rather than feeding it.

The wood never burned through, spelled to stay whole, a reminder that his reality wasn’t his—wasn’t nature’s—to control.

A small wooden tray lay forgotten to his side.

Crumbs from the stale bread and moldy cheese they fed him morning and night lay scattered about.

Rats scurried around the tray, battling each other for who might snap up the bits left behind by the broken man.

Thankfully, he left enough for the rats to avoid eating away at his own flesh.

How much longer would it be before they too tired of the minimal nourishment and came after something more filling?

Ander could smell other things—things he wished not to think of.

Blood coated his forehead and chin from where he was beaten, a sticky reminder of how powerless he truly was against these men.

The golden cuffs still burned thick lines into his wrists—his power depleted, at least for now.

He could feel it there, yearning to claw its way out from his gut.

The little flickers that sent a foggy hue through his mind.

Through his very soul. Reaching, reaching, reaching, but never making it to the surface.

Leighton had told him the horrors of Cyther.

Of how these golden objects that now fed off him were made.

Ander had not contemplated the pain they would cause when used on someone like him.

On a fully powered god. The first time, when he was younger, they felt numb and tiring, a mere nuisance as he’d wasted away in the brig of Edmund’s ship, The Typhon .

Now, sitting here in this dungeon, unable to move his broken bones or fight back, it was unbearable.

The slaughtered women sacrificed to Hades, it was as if he could hear their screams and pleas.

Feel their tears and pooling hot blood mixing with his as it slid along his skin.

Undiluted terror radiated out from the two concentric circles that bound his hands together and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Night was always better. The guards would give him a cup of broth and some fatty bits of meat, no doubt left over from whatever lavish meal they ate above.

They kept him fed, barely, but enough that he knew they did not want him dead.

No—King Edmund and King Athanas wanted him alive for something.

He just didn't know what. Was it revenge for him escaping? Was it to force Katrin’s hand to save him and return to Alentus?

If there was one thing Ander did know with the utmost certainty, it was that Katrin should stay as far away from her kingdom as possible.

Because the two kings would kill her. Ander was sure of it.

Even Kohl, who claimed he loved Katrin, would not be able to stop them.

Kohl was merely a puppet, an object Khalid and Edmund used to do their dirty work.

Accompanying them, Kohl would only sit there, ebony eyes gleaming with hatred, foot tapping incessantly, breathing heavy.

Kohl would watch as they carved up Ander’s body, never participating in the act fully.

Sometimes, the King of Alentus would graze his thumb over the shaven teeth he now bore—the sign of a true Morentian warrior.

A warrior from the south. One that would rip out the throat of those that stood against him if necessary.

A show of power, perhaps. That although he did not torture Ander directly, he could.

But every once in a while, when King Edmund used one of his more treacherous methods of inflicting pain, Ander could have sworn Kohl flinched.

Leaning his head back against the stone wall, Ander sighed in relief.

Today had been one of the worst days since he was dragged screaming down into these dungeons.

Night would be coming soon, which meant he would not be visited again.

King Edmund preferred the calmness of the early morning, waking Ander with a bucket of ice water dropped over his head.

Liked the way the water chilled Ander’s bones before Edmund and Khalid took fire-wrought pokers and dragged them down his skin, searing lines deep in his flesh.

It was almost poetic, that such evil took place in the light of day and his only reprieve from pain came at night.

Night, where he could almost picture Katrin watching him from the corner of the dungeon, begging to help him, telling Ander that he would make it if he just held on a little longer.

It was the best part of his day—imagining her face, sparkling brown and amber eyes, copper-streaked hair waving delicately over her shoulder. Her smile—gods, that smile was the one thing keeping Ander from giving into their requests. Keeping him from letting them kill him.

Footsteps sounded from down the flame-lit corridor.

It would most likely be one of the guards stomping away because they had to come pick up the discarded food tray and empty the bucket they deigned to call a chamber pot.

Usually the males would just toss the contents in the corner of Ander's cell.

One of the many things that burned his nose when he breathed.

Ander tugged at his restraints as two men came into sight.

One was decked out in a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up showing his muscled forearms, snakes winding around each one.

The other wore a silver-threaded, navy waistcoat, too fine a material to be ruined by the stench of the dungeons, though this particular man never seemed to mind.

The two chattered amongst themselves for a moment before one of them broke out in a bone-chilling cackle.

There would be no rest tonight .

King Athanas slid into the light first. Seeing the Morentian man never frightened Ander, not like others who witnessed the Viper of Votios.

Ander was used to his cruel forms of torture.

Always physical, always brute force. King Edmund, on the other hand—although he equally enjoyed the usual manners of torture—had far more wicked ways to torment those he imprisoned.

Flashes of his time spent locked in the brig haunted his memory.

How the scenes and images of the ones he loved dying would play in a constant loop in his mind.

How sometimes he would see each and every one of them betray him, forever held in a dungeon to rot away much like he was now.

Thankfully, the king had not resorted to those methods quite yet.

The ability to weave that kind of illusion when you were not a god took more power than Edmund had now.

He used what manipulations his sorcery could muster on capturing Ander in the first place.

It would take time or a sacrifice Ander did not think even the king would resort to.

The Viper slithered up to the outside of his dungeon’s wrought iron doors, fiddling with the lock.

He pricked the end of his finger with a dagger, dropping a few bits of blood on the golden key to the door.

Blood. It was the only thing that seemed to open the creaking entry to the cell he was bound to.

Once Khalid entered the cell, he crouched down, meeting deep ebony eyes with Ander's. Smells of fish and amber liquor floated out of his mouth as he rasped, “Have you thought about our arrangement, boy? It won’t be long until my men have found your beloved Katrin, but if you tell us now maybe I can spare her the same…how should I say…fate, as last time.”

Ander had barely enough left in him to spit in the king's face, but he did.

“If you put one hand on her, it will be the last time you ever use it.” He heaved, choking on his own words, wishing he had sipped more of the water they had left him even if it was not pure.

“You may hurt me, strip skin and flesh from my body, sear fire into my bones, but you will never touch her again.” Baring his teeth, a little glimmer of silver lit in his eyes, dimming out a moment later.

The Viper recoiled just slightly from him, noting the bit of power that still yearned to get out. “And how, exactly, do you expect to make good on your threat, boy, when you’re dead?” A fist landed across Ander's jaw, trickles of blood cascading over his lip and down his neck.

Their visits always started this way, with the sound of bones cracking.

His jaw. His arm. His rib. It was all the same.

Ander only needed to turn it off—that pain and torment.

For it was all fleeting. They would get bored once more and give him some tonic to heal his cuts and burns and bruises enough so that they could start new the next day.

But not enough that a lingering throb didn't haunt him when he was alone in the darkness.

King Edmund stepped up, sharpening a narrow, flat blade against stone.

His stringy, blonde hair was plastered to his face and a light glimmer of sweat coated his skin.

Usually blue eyes were completely absorbed by a blackened sheen.

He muttered words low under his breath, before slicing the blade against his palm.

A golden glow radiated off the blade and a faint humming filled the dungeon.

It was quiet at first, a thump, thump, thumping, growing with every beat until it sounded like a war drum echoing in the distance.

Walking over to the wall which chained Ander, King Athanas unhooked an attached rope and pulled until the prince was flat across the wall.

A lever on the side of the restraints was pulled down, kicking off a series of cranks that flipped the wall back into a stone table.

Salt water and dirt dripped from the crevices in the stone above, landing in Ander's eyes and on his now broken jaw.

Pulling against the chains, Ander tried to break their hold once more.

If he could only get one hand out, maybe enough of his power would rise up so that he could land a blow on the two kings.

Fill their lungs with mist until they pass out from the lack of air.

He could feel the holds slipping, his wrists thinner from the lack of nourishment.

Perhaps the water that trickled down from the ceiling could help him slide—

“Well, Alexander, what should we take first today?” King Athanas's eyes washed over with that same misty black as he took a seat on a stool beside the table, reaching out and grabbing the wrist Ander attempted to free.

A wooden tray lay on a smaller table that had extended out of the same stone, covered in other knives, pokers, and daggers the two kings had used the last few days.

Some were sharpened and glistening and took off a thin layer of skin.

Some were rusted and coated with blood, meant to scrape out larger chunks of flesh, leaving infection in their wake.

King Edmund's raspy voice echoed off the dungeon walls.

“The fingers are so mundane, but they really do the trick.” He gripped Ander's other wrist tightly, hooking a piece of rope through an attachment on the golden cuffs, pinning his hand to the side of the table.

Blood seeped from Ander's skin as he held in a scream the two king's desperately longed for. A sign their methods were working. The golden-hued knife sliced from the center of his pointer finger’s nail bed all the way down to his last knuckle.

What blood did not coat his skin seemed to sizzle and absorb back into the blade, causing that drumming to get louder and louder.

The wicked king took his time, slicing each finger on his left hand and then his right.

Ander clenched his jaw the entire time, beads of sweat forming around his temple and jaw.

They will not break me. Each cut is worth it.

Each slice is worth her being safe. His seated eyes glazed over as he dug as deep as he could.

Then the knife was swapped for another tool, one that clamped down on his first nail and held tight.

A low hiss escaped through Ander's lips as the king began to pull, ripping nail from flesh.

“Not so strong are you now? What a weak excuse for a god,” King Athanas laughed in the corner, spinning the golden rings that lined his fingers.

King Edmund grasped onto the next nail, pulling quickly.

This time, Ander could not hold back his scream.

Howling laughter came from the blonde king.

“That's it, boy, let it all out.” There was a shared sense of joy between King Edmund and King Athanas, removing each nail from Ander's skin until only stubs of flesh were left in their place.

After hours of torment, King Edmund put the tools away, uncorking a deep mahogany vile, forcing a searing liquid down Ander's throat.

Fire caught in his veins, threading out to every piece of him that had been ripped apart, willing his very flesh and bones to stitch themselves back together, regenerate and regrow.

Then King Athanas struck his ring-covered fist across Ander's eye and jaw and nose once more. A process repeated well into the night.

“Tell us where your ship has escaped to and this can all be over.” King Edmund bent down and his heated breath cascaded over Ander's ear. “Is she really worth all this? ”

With what little strength the prince had left, he turned his head toward the king, meeting those jet-black orbs. “Always.”