Page 10 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER SIX

ZEVANDER

Past …

W ith legs as heavy as logs, Zevander trudged through the soft sand, the intense Solassion sun beating down on the back of his neck where his sigil practically sizzled in the heat.

The chain at his throat extended to the cuff at his father’s ahead of him, and to that of the fellow prisoner’s to his rear.

The line of prisoners marched toward the gated entrance of a massive structure that looked as if it’d been birthed from the jagged mountains into which it’d been carved.

As they passed through the iron gate, Zevander could make out an intricately etched relief, which depicted the Soladei and their inferior gods, Heliorchs—or sunwardens, as they were known—who were whipping what he guessed were mancers, as small and weak as they appeared by comparison.

He knew from countless history lessons that many of the slaves said to have been captured by the Soladei were Lunasier.

Above them, the sun flickered like a hungry pyre against an ominous gray sky as if anxious to devour him. How the world could be so dark with such an intense source of light was a mystery of the gods.

“Do you see it?” the older man behind him rasped.

“In the sky? The dragon has come to save us! He’s a friend of mine, you know?

” He’d been ranting and raving for most of the trek, his mind clearly deteriorating as the endless day wore on.

He’d seemed fine days before, when they’d sat in the tumbril bound for Solassios, talking about his ailing wife left to fend for herself.

“You hear me, boy? Are you listening to me?”

Zevander didn’t dare answer, as he’d already suffered the whip once for entertaining the man’s incessant inquiries. The wounds were still fresh and stinging.

“My dragon friend will burn them all to the ground with the black flame. Sablefyre. Did you know sablefyre is the only element that can hatch a dragon’s egg? Used to be dragons in the mortal lands. But veins dried up, so the dragons left. Ever heard of dragon riders?”

The old man must’ve lost his senses, talking about dragon riders. Only a damned fool would dare to mount one of the unpredictable beasts. Zevander had once heard of a king’s mage who’d thought he was powerful enough to overcome a dragon. Ended up a pile of cinder.

“Know why mancers can’t control them?”

Zevander screwed his eyes shut and groaned, wishing the old codger would shut it already. Only a matter of time before the guards would hear his ramblings, and he’d be forced to endure yet another whipping.

“They’re gods. Dragons are gods, and only the dragon riders can?—”

A hard yank of his throat threw Zevander backward, and letting out a grunt, he grabbed the cuff that bit into his neck. Behind him, the older prisoner lay convulsing, the blue in his eyes clouded by a milky white. His pale skin, common for Lunasier, had begun to turn pink with patchy red blisters.

“Sun poisoning,” his father said at his back, and when Zevander shifted his gaze that way, he noticed his father’s skin had begun to turn pink, as well. “Poor bastard.”

“Poisoning?” He knew too much sun was hard on the Lunasier, which was why most kept covered in daylight, but he’d never heard of poisoning. How could the farmers back home avoid it, as much as they worked the fields?

As if his father could read his mind, he said, “Sun is different here. In the south, the moons protect us. They balance the humors. Here, the moons are farther away. Our blood isn’t made to endure it.”

Arms held out, Zevander noticed his own skin held a slight pink tone, but nowhere near as prominent as the older man’s. Or his father’s, for that matter.

The sound of a cracking whip snapped Zevander’s attention toward three approaching guards, and his father nudged him back.

“Get up, you lazy cunt!” Another snap of a whip struck the old man’s leg, slicing open one of the many blisters there. “Get your ass up before I whip it bloody!”

Zevander’s wounds flared at the thought of it. Get up, man, he urged.

The guard cracked his whip again, that time splitting open the old man’s forearm.

Nausea gurgled in Zevander’s throat, and he turned away.

“He’s succumbed to poisoning. Leave ‘im here,” one of the other guards urged. “Daylight’s waning.”

Hard to believe they called this daylight. Zevander had always imagined Solassios to be painfully luminous. Perhaps some parts were.

“Remove his cuff,” the whip-bearer guard ordered, and the third guard scrambled to unlock it.

As he attempted to yank the thick metal from the old man’s neck, it wouldn’t budge. “Think it seared to him.”

Frowning, Zevander stuffed his fingers into his own cuff, and though it fit snug against his throat, a small gap remained.

“Well rip the bloody thing off, if you have to! Time is wasting!”

“I can’t, Sir. It’s like hardened clay.”

The guard groaned and turned to a monstrous figure linked to the other side of the old man.

Zevander had only seen an orgoth once in his life, but he’d heard stories of their ferocity.

Excessively muscled and tall, with sharp ivory tusks that protruded from their bottom lip, they looked more beast than man.

Stubby, white horns and pale skin with blue undertones, like a wintry corpse, hinted that he might’ve been Vespyri.

“You there,” the guard said, pointing toward the orgoth. “Remove this man’s cuff, and I’ll grant you an extra ration of water.”

The orgoth gave a hearty snort and stepped forward, hauling the prisoners behind him to the ground.

The beastly man bent forward, lifting the much smaller, trembling Lunasier by his head, and placed his thick hands at either side of his face.

In one grunt, he squeezed, and the man’s head exploded on a splattering of blood, meat and bone.

Zevander spun and expelled the last meager meal he’d eaten that day, a spray of mostly bile that splashed onto the black sand below him.

The rest of the man’s body slumped to the sand, his stumpy neck slipping right through the cuff, leaving behind a string of skin that dangled from the chain.

“Well, not quite what I had in mind, but off we go.” The guard turned his attention toward the front of the line. “Ahead!”

As the orgoth stepped back, the chain stretched out with the empty cuff between them, and that dangling bit of flesh taunted the back of the boy’s throat again.

He turned away and the pink of his father’s skin caught his attention.

Again, Zevander found himself staring down at his flesh, which only seemed to have darkened in the blazing sun.

As if noticing himself, his father frowned, lips tight.

Without saying a word, he turned away from Zevander and followed after the chain of prisoners.

Jags of mountain spires clawed at the stormy gray sky overhead, while gaping black archways swallowed the line of prisoners entering the mines.

Only a few scattered torches illuminated the surrounding darkness as Zevander entered, and once inside, a guard approached him from behind and unshackled the cuff at his throat.

Zevander rubbed his hand across his neck, the burn of the absent metal lingering there.

When the guard moved onto his father’s, the boy watched as he struggled with the cuff, which had burned into the older man’s skin.

“Gods be damned!” the guard growled over his father’s cries of pain. In a wet, tearing sound, he loosened it, and Lord Rydainn fell to his good knee.

The older Rydainn pushed to his feet, and Zevander caught sight of the glistening, raw patches where his skin had been torn away.

A shove from behind sent Zevander tripping forward, but he caught himself and looked up to see an arched stone tunnel ahead, where other prisoners—mostly of his age—had been herded.

His father was directed toward an adjacent tunnel with older men, and for a brief moment, he wanted to run to him, just as he had as a child whenever he was uncertain or afraid.

He didn’t, though. After having learned that his father had murdered a woman, Zevander wanted nothing to do with him.

Instead, he followed after his peers, not sparing his father another glance.

“Move along!” The guard who’d shouted stood on a small wooden platform and smiled as he drove the boys forward like cattle, cracking his whip against their sunburned flesh as they passed.

Fire streaked across Zevander’s exposed arms with the strike of the guard’s whip, and he clenched his teeth, cradling the lash mark as he swallowed back the pain.

All of the boys his age were arranged in a single line and marched toward the arched wooden door at the end of the tunnel.

At the front of the line, the first boy was led through, the rest of them made to wait.

Only minutes later, screams bled through the door, and a wintry frost crawled through Zevander’s veins as he imagined what could possibly be happening in that room.

When the door swung open again, the boy didn’t emerge, but the next in line was shoved inside and the door slammed shut behind him.

More screams.

Terrible screams that prickled his skin.

Minutes later, the door swung open again, and a third boy was pushed inside by the guard standing at his back.

The moment the young prisoner seemed to catch sight of the room, he spun on his heel and shot back toward the door, a look of terror carved into his expression.

“No! No! Please!” His fingers clung to the frame, as guards inside the room yanked at his arms and shirt.

The guard outside the room lifted his boot, kicking the boy in the chest, which dislodged his hands, and the door slammed shut behind him. A blood-curdling scream sent a chill down Zevander’s spine, and he glanced around, noticing the only escape was the way they’d entered through the tunnel.

Blocked by a half-dozen guards.