Page 14 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAZHIMYR
Four days ago …
A fiery 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.
“No,” Zivant answered, as if insulted by the suggestion. “I’ll find the prince myself. Jeret doesn’t intend to kill him.”
“What makes you so certain of that?” Lord Belthane asked. “King Jeret is facing a significant threat by mercenaries whose numbers are growing, and Sagaerin has repeatedly refused to send aid.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of Kael Vexmoor and his band of mercenaries. We lost nearly ten thousand men to him, if you’ll recall.” Bitterness colored Zivant’s tone. “King Sagaerin isn’t interested in sending his men into a bloodbath.”
“Yet, Kael Vexmoor’s army grows and grows through our lack of action. Who’s to say he won’t become a threat to Nyxteros!”
“You know as well as I do what Kael Vexmoor wants.” Zivant lowered his voice, but Kazhimyr could still make out what he was saying.
“Revenge. For his mother. His sister. His wrath lies with Jeret. Jeret would be a damned fool to kill Prince Dorjan. He’s merely playing on Sagaerin’s fears as a father.
I’ll negotiate with Jeret to keep the peace between Solassios and Nyxteros and ensure the prince’s safe return. ”
“You think they’re headed toward Lunamarys Falls, Sir?” his second asked.
“They’d be fools to head north. Between the Carnificans and dragons, they’d have little chance of making it to the Australius Channel.”
“Captain Zivant!” A guard rushed along the same corridor where Kazhimyr and Ravezio remained hidden, slipping right past them. “The Letalisz have escaped. The cupbearer is dead.”
Zivant let out a furious roar. “Find them! Scour the castle. And when you do happen upon them, they’re to be crucified.”
“Crucified?” Strange to hear even the slightest hesitation in the guard’s voice, given their hatred for the Letalisz. “On what grounds?”
“Conspiring to kidnap the prince. Now, go. I’m leaving for Lunamarys Falls at once. Get the crowd under control. Ensure the king remains protected, and find those scurvy assassins. They’ve proven useless, and I want them put to death by day’s end.”