Page 17 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER TEN

ZEVANDER

Past …

Z evander brought the sledgehammer down hard, shattering the glittery black rock into small shards—the ore of a dead vein that would be melted down and used for weapons.

On rare occasions, they managed to chip away small chunks of vivicantem, which they were forced to turn over to the wardens, or risk unimaginable punishment.

Sometimes even death, depending on the size of the rock.

The unforgiving heat blazed across his back, his muscles glistening with sweat.

Not long ago, he could barely stand the Solassion sun so long, nor lift the hammer in his hands that he now wielded with ease.

His once scrawny frame had doubled in size, his muscles far more accustomed to the grueling labor.

He stood on the edge of boy- and manhood—old enough to possess the steel lines of a man’s face and the wisdom of nearly two decades, but still too young to have lived through the kind of atrocities he’d seen during his time in the mines.

“Slow down, you exuberant cunt. You’re making us look bad.” Ravezio, his cellmate, hiked his hammer onto his shoulder, his chest rising and falling with exertion.

Zevander smiled and dragged the back of his hand across his damp brow. “Isn’t any fault of mine that you work like a drunken tome rotter after a bucket of ale.”

Ravezio snorted and brought his hammer down on the rock, splitting it in half. “I’d prefer a lifetime of analyzing tomes over this shit. Bucket of ale included.”

“Don’t talk about ale. Last I had a sip, I was damn near young enough to sit on my granddad’s lap.” Kazhimyr, his other cellmate and a fellow Lunasier, added.

“Didn’t you share a drink with the warden last week? Does he make you call him granddad?” Ravezio shot a sneering grin back at Kazhimyr and winked.

Entirely unamused, Kazhimyr glared back at his friend and lifted his hammer between them. “Keep flapping your jaw, and I’ll shove the pointed tip up your ass.”

“Fucking hell, at this point, even that sounds exciting.”

Shaking his head, Zevander snorted and hammered away again.

Jagron, a hulking orgoth prisoner who’d been promoted to sector guard, passed them, giving a small nod to Zevander.

Due to their size and strength, a number of orgoth prisoners got promoted to guards.

After all, a contented and well-fed orgoth was far more obedient and less violent than one subjected to abuse and labor.

While he had no love for the guards, or warden, Zevander had learned over the years that working hard and minding his business meant more food rations and fewer punishments.

He nodded back.

Ravezio leaned in and lowered his voice. “Heard he killed Morthok in the grist.”

The grist, or Bone Grist, as prisoners sometimes called it, was a favorite pastime for the guards—a means of entertainment in their otherwise vapid existence.

Prisoners were often pitted against each other in a fight to the death.

With new prisoners arriving daily, the guards felt it was a necessary means of thinning the population.

Sometimes, guards even fought each other as a means of eliminating their enemies.

Another perk of working hard—Zevander was rarely forced to fight these days.

“Morthok had a mouth the size of these caverns,” Zevander argued. “Bastard’s lucky he lasted this long.”

“Still, shit way to go, having your throat ripped out.”

The creaking sound from behind alerted him to the water cart, and the mere thought of cold fluids had his mouth watering. When he turned, a gaunt, but familiar face greeted him.

At first, Zevander could only stare. His heart slammed against his ribs, the thud in his ears so loud, he could hardly hear the hammering around him. A twitch of his muscles begged him to approach, but he couldn’t move.

“Father?” Zevander frowned, uncertain.

He hadn’t seen his father since they’d first arrived, and the man who stood before him right then looked to have wasted away in that time, his bones sharp and peeking through his mottled skin. Yet, he offered a pained smile, his dark, sunken eyes appraising him.

As angry as he may have been at one time, Zevander’s heart ached at the sight of him. How small and frail.

“You look in good health. Strong.” As his eyes appraised Zevander, they seemed to land on the many scars he’d earned over the last few years. A rheumy shield in his gaze wavered as if he would cry right then. Strange, seeing as he was the very man who’d taught him to hide his tears as a child.

“Get your drink and stop wasting the day!” Warden Vicarek barked through clenched teeth.

It didn’t matter how hard Zevander worked, or what respect he showed the guards, it seemed he’d never find favor in that surly old bastard. Zevander almost wondered if he had it in for him, as much as he singled him out in punishments.

Eyes wide, his father ladled water into a tin cup, offering him twice his usual ration.

Zevander took in his state, as he stared back at him over the rim. “You’ve not eaten much.”

“Food is scarce amongst the elder crowd. Hard fought for and not easily won some days. Particularly when you’ve got a bad leg and the orgoths are scavenging.” His father ladled water for Kazhimyr and Ravezio, as well.

“Come tomorrow, and I’ll have bread.”

“I’d sooner starve than take from my own son.”

“I can get extra rations.”

“You’ve earned your place.” What little pride there was to be had in the prison, it gleamed in his father’s eyes right then. “That’s good.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Zevander handed back the cup, and his father gave a nod.

“Tomorrow.”

T he cells that housed the prisoners were nothing more than small caverns with three walls, one of which was a stretch of iron bars.

Opposite the bars, yawned a completely open view, no wall obstructing the vast expanse of the Solassion mountains.

A breathtaking sight, if not for the nauseating drop, the bottom of which wasn’t even visible from their height.

They were known as the Cliff Tombs, seeing as it wasn’t uncommon for a prisoner to edge too close and fall over, their gut-wrenching screams a nightmarish echo.

Those first nights in the prison, years ago, Zevander had worried that he might fall with his restlessness, and even tethered himself to the cell bars for a while.

He’d since learned to sleep quietly and still.

With one arm tucked under his head, Zevander stared out at the stars. He’d always remembered them being so much brighter back home. Or perhaps that was just a dream. He wondered if his mother and sister were staring up at them right then.

“Almost the Eventide Somnial,” Kazhimyr said beside him, where he lay on his own bamboo mat.

Also known as Winter Somnial or the long slumber, it was a celebration of the longest stretch of night, when both moons crossed paths and all of Aethyria would be shrouded in darkness for seven nights. A celebration of the Lunadei.

A spark of hope when the world was too dark.

Zevander had always looked forward to the Somnial in the past. All the lights. The food. The gifts. The laughter.

Gods, he missed the laughter.

Here, the winter celebration was nothing more than seven nights of misery and heat, not a single flake of snow to know the season had even arrived.

Only the extra ration of water declared the holiday in the mines.

At home, those who worked laborious trades were permitted to stay home, and some generous masters even offered extra coin.

As the days would grow darker in the upcoming months, they’d work just as hard by firelight, with only the blessing of that unbearable sunlight disappearing behind the moons.

“Do you ever make a wish on the stars?” Kazhimyr asked.

“No. Stars are too far out of reach to give a fuck.”

His cellmate chuckled. “What cynical thoughts you carry during this joyous time of year.”

The sound of rustling reached their ears, and both of them lifted their heads to where Ravezio, lying on the other side of Kazhimyr, was undoubtedly stripping himself beneath his threadbare blanket.

Zevander let out a sound of disapproval and lowered his head. “Godsteeth, tell me you’re not sleeping unclad again.”

“It happens to be good for you. I sweat when I sleep.”

“You sweat because you stroke your cock while you’re dreaming,” Zevander argued back.

“That is quite good for you, as well. Keeps the blood pumping.”

“Pump your blood somewhere else, yeah? The rest of us don’t want to hear it.”

Zevander snorted at Kazhimyr’s comment, staring up at one particularly bright star in the sky, wondering how much it’d stand out in the upcoming Somnial.

Kazhimyr sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for one night with a woman. My father had fucked half our village by the time he was my age. It isn’t right that we should be denied during our prime.”

Zevander couldn’t deny the urges he’d begun to feel from the time he’d first slipped into adolescence. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet reached the age of moon cycles, which typically began at the first quarter-century. A time when young Lunasier men grew exceptionally aroused.

And cranky.

The rut, some called it, but Zevander had never personally been exposed to understand those primal urges. He’d only heard the cries of pain and quiet grunts from cellmates who sometimes offered relief. “You’ve still got centuries of opportunity ahead of you.”

“You speak as if you believe we’ll make it out of here. We’d be the first, if we did.”

Zevander had heard the stories, had seen the older prisoners, including his father, wasting away. Yet, from the moment he’d set foot inside the mines, he’d had the unfounded belief that he’d, one day, see his mother and sister again. “Who’s cynical now?”

“Might the two of you shut your fucking flappers? You’re ruining the fantasy in my head.”

“What fantasy?” Kazhimyr asked, the curiosity in his voice a telling symptom of his first approaching moon cycle.