Page 11 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

Only two other boys remained ahead of him.

The next had to be dragged into the room.

Through the narrow gap, Zevander spied the profile of a short, squatty man standing alongside a tray of what looked to be strange tools.

The man snapped his head toward Zevander whose heart jolted when the other half of his face was revealed.

Covered in silver that must’ve been poured over his head and hardened the way it seemed to drip down his face, his eyes hidden behind dark purple spectacles.

The door slammed shut.

Tension tightened Zevander’s muscles as his mind begged him to run. Even if there was the slightest chance that they’d catch him.

The door opened again.

Go. Now .

He turned to step out of line and caught sight of four figures entering the tunnel, garbed in golden armor with elegant filigree across the breastplates, and pauldrons that looked like sun motifs.

Wings with engraved feathers swept either side of their golden, riveted helms, and the long, golden tresses that draped over their shoulders nearly reached their elbows.

While tall and intimidating, thanks to their bulky figures, they walked with poise and grace, before coming to a stop alongside him.

The figure closest to him removed their helmet, revealing themselves to be a woman—the most impressive woman he had ever seen in his life, with her square, muscular jaw, and sharp, sculpted bones.

“Rather scrawny crop, isn’t it?” Her gaze lingered on Zevander, eyes scanning him up and down, before she made her way back down the line in the other direction.

The boy behind him whispered, “The Bellatryx.”

“Who are they?”

“Solassion warriors. Said to be half orgoth. I heard they’re cannibals and sadists.”

A grip on Zevander’s shoulder startled him, and on instinct, he spun around, fist swinging. His knuckles smashed into the guard’s jaw, and the older man stumbled backward.

Zevander had simply wanted to escape. He hadn’t intended to attack the guard.

No choice but to run at that point. Spinning on his heel, he darted in the opposite direction, toward the Bellatryx.

One of the guards barreled toward him, and Zevander ducked as the guard swung out, slipping past him on all fours like a rampant rodent.

He pushed to his feet and pivoted to the right, dodging another approaching guard, the tip of the guard’s blade just grazing his arm.

He’d learned to be fast, to catch prey, or avoid competing predators, the many times his father had taken him hunting.

Ahead of him stood the Bellatryx. Once past them, he’d find himself in the main tunnel. Perhaps confronted by more guards. And what about Father?

He didn’t have time to think about Father right then. Zevander was certain, at that point, if the guards caught him, they’d undoubtedly kill him.

One of the boys toward the end of the line, as if inspired by his act of defiance, darted forward and dropped to all fours, crawling through the legs of the bulky Bellatryx across from him.

Zevander expected them to be slow and sluggish beneath their pauldrons and breast plates, but before the boy could slip by, a long, golden blade impaled his back with the smooth glide of liquid silk.

Zevander ground to a halt, watching the Bellatryx soldier lift the skewered boy into the air by the sword.

Horror swelled in his chest on hearing the boy scream, crying out for his father as he slid down the length of the blade. His trembling hands gripped its beautifully beveled edges that slid through his finger bones, lopping them off with ease.

Air caught in Zevander’s throat, his lungs thick with fear.

The other Bellatryx laughed as their fellow soldier lowered the boy to his feet and drove the blade upward, splitting him in two halves that fell to the ground in a thunk of bloody meat.

Once free of the boy’s carcass, the Bellatryx ran her tongue over the broad side of the blade, licking the blood from the steel.

“He even tastes weak,” she said, and more laughs erupted as she wiped the remains with a kerchief, before sheathing her sword.

A firm hand gripped Zevander’s shoulder, and he spun in time to see a fist rushing toward his face. It connected with a splitting crack across his cheek, rattling his teeth, and his vision blurred.

Blackness followed.

S earing pain tore through Zevander’s mind, and he opened his eyes to blackness.

At least, he imagined his eyes were open, could feel the flutter of his eyelids while he attempted to blink.

He gasped a breath, his hands flitting through the dark to ensure he could move, searching for evidence of injury.

He felt nothing but the thin clothing he’d worn, absent of any wet patches of blood or gaping wounds. A hard wall pressed beneath his haunches, where he sat slumped against it.

A blinding light filtered in, one far too bright, and he raised his arm to shield his eyes, just making out a dark figure in the center of his view.

The distinct shape of a hooded cloak left him guessing who the stranger might be.

The hood lowered, casting light across a face he didn’t recognize. Pale skin. Light colored eyes. A few scattered wrinkles and slightly weathered skin put him at about his father’s age.

Pushing to his feet, Zevander looked around, searching for some familiarity in the shadows, but he couldn’t see past that ray of light.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Beyond the confines of consciousness and sleep,” the stranger answered in a deep, raspy voice. “Caligorya.”

He’d heard of Caligorya before—a place in the deepest part of the mind where healers sometimes sent those who’d been gravely injured. The Shadow Realm. A place of quiet without pain, but also darkness. A lawless hellscape for some.

Zevander frowned. “Am I dying?”

“No. But were you awake, you’d wish for death, I’m certain.”

“Who are you?”

“An old friend.”

“If you are a friend, why don’t I recognize you?”

“I knew your parents. The Lord and Lady Rydainn.”

Strange that he knew his parents. Stranger still that he’d managed to slip into Zevander’s mind. “If this is Caligorya, as you say, how are you here?”

“I have… abilities that allow me to reach your thoughts.”

The light shifted toward where Zevander’s arms rested at his sides. He lifted them to find skinny lines of symbols burned into his wrists—symbols that hadn’t been there moments before. “What is this?”

Agony scorched the back of his neck like a white-hot iron pressed to his skin. The flame licked his spine and down the back of his legs. Zevander cried out, falling to his knees.

The stranger let out a growl, also falling to his knees, his outstretched arms showing the same symbols etched into his wrists. “You mustn’t…focus on…the pain! Close your eyes! Close them now!”

Zevander shuttered his eyes, as commanded, and in that darkness, the pain dissolved, slinking away like a vaporous nightmare. He let out long, easy breaths, calming himself, and when he opened his eyes again, the light moved over the stranger. “How is this possible?”

“Darkness is easier on the mind,” the stranger said, placing a palm to his knee and pushing to his feet. “The light is harsh and punishing.”

“The markings on my arms. What are they?”

“A spell. To keep you from using your magic.”

“I have no magic. I was born a spindling.”

The stranger let out a dark chuckle. “Is that what they told you? Your good and loving parents have denied you the power that slumbers inside of you, have they?”

“I have no power.”

“If that were true, you’d have perished to your brother’s spiders that day when he attacked you.”

An unsettling curiosity palmed the back of Zevander’s neck. How could he have known about that?

Still, it was true. Prodozja was a protective form of magic. He couldn’t have summoned his scorpions had he been born a spindling. Spindlings possessed no magic, but if truth be told, Zevander had always questioned what he’d been taught. “How do you know so much about me?”

“I know many things. I know that you possess the most ancient and destructive power there is. An extraordinary gift of the gods.”

Zevander frowned. His father’s bloodline magic was forging metal. A long line of blacksmiths and farriers. His mother was an empath, a grief eater who also possessed the gift of reading minds. “There is nothing ancient, nor extraordinary, about my bloodline.”

“Yours is not derived from the sun or moon. It lives in the heart of Aethyria. It is the molten blackness that pumps through the veins of our world. Few gods take physical form, but this one lives within you.”

Zevander puzzled his words. “Who?”

“Deimos. The god of sablefyre and destruction.”

Zevander’s laugh began as a slow and dissonant chuckle, but the more he thought about the old man’s words, the more ridiculous it sounded in his head.

“You don’t have to believe what is truth. It does not change your fate,” the stranger snarled.

Harder, the boy laughed, his skin prickling. He howled and wheezed, until his throat was raw and his eyes wavered with tears.

The surrounding darkness flickered in his periphery, with images slipping in and out of focus.

Ropes. Blood. Tools precariously hanging on the wall. Trembling limbs and sharp breaths.

“You must stop! You mustn’t leave this place!”

The stranger lurched forward, and Zevander closed his eyes over the watery shield that shimmered in them.

When he opened them again, a scorching heat tore across his back on a crackling sound.

Zevander peered down at a gritty floor only a meter or so below him.

Hard to tell with the slight blur in his eyes.

Trembling, he managed to turn his head just enough to see that he was suspended by ropes, attached to iron posts, which held him up off the ground.

Same must’ve been true for his legs, though he couldn’t move to confirm.

“Let’s see you run now, boy!” A loud crack rang in his ear, and pain slashed across his spine.

Zevander shook, his limbs stretched so tight, even the small trembles sent pulses of agony through him.

The pain lulled him into a strange delirium, the objects before his eyes becoming echoes of themselves.

The laughter and mocking grew distant, while his mind wound back to moments before—what must’ve been a dream.

The stranger’s words reverberated through his thoughts.

“He lives in you.” A god. How ridiculous!

A string of bloody saliva spilled from his swollen lip, and he let out a strained burst of laughter. His laughter turned hysterical as he imagined how fucking sorry a god must’ve felt, trapping itself inside the body of a helpless spindling.

The thought made him laugh harder.

“Laughing at me, are you?” Another thunderous crack sent a streak of flames across his skin. Flames. Like sablefyre.

Zevander let out another hoarse wheeze of laughter that ached in his battered ribs where he must’ve been kicked at some point. The clank of metal was only a minor distraction from the maddening hilarity that had taken over him, and he turned when a flash of gold struck his periphery.

The figure at his side knelt to eye level, and through a mist of tears, he could make out the face of the Bellatryx who’d skewered the boy earlier.

“Aren’t you a fascinating creature,” she said, her voice tinged with intrigue. With gentle fingers, she pushed a strand of hair from his face, her touch reminding him of his mother’s.

Zevander ground his teeth, holding back tears as thoughts of his mother arrived with another punishing blow.

“Enough of this. I long to see how this one fares in the mines.” She ran her calloused fingers across his arms, giving a small squeeze when she reached his biceps. “A bit of muscle ought to make him delicious. And once he’s strong enough, you will send him to me.”