Page 104 of Eldritch
“The elixirs are to dull your senses, but again, do not consume them. You’re not required to eat, or drink, but most do out of thirst and hunger.”
Zevander had wondered why supper had been withheld.
“The general will have you set loose in the cavern beneath the floor of the rotunda.” The troubled expression across her face told him there was something terrible about the cavern. “It’s where she keeps her pets. You will be forced to fight other slaves, but you’re not permitted to kill each other. Only wound your opponent. The victor will be rescued from the cavern. The other will be left as food for her pets. You must find Aradia before then. It’s imperative that you deliver the message before the fight.”
Zevander snorted and glanced away, noting Theron was no longer there. “Gods forbid, I’m consumed before your message is carried.”
“You won’t die. You defeated an orgoth. My faith in you is strong. But just in case …” She broke an ampoule open and rubbed a red substance across his wrist. “One brush of your tongue will kill you in minutes.”
“Why would I need that? Whatarethese pets of hers?”
“Charnelyths.” Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “Fully grown, adult charnelyths.”
Zevander had only a vague idea of what they were, seeing as they didn’t exist where he’d grown up. All he knew of the creatures was that they were a sort of wyrm dragon that dwelled underground and were known for eating corpses in cemeteries.
“Only the wounded are consumed?”
“Yes. General Loyce detests weakness.” Vaelora lifted a white half-mask with gold filigree, one that, when in place, only covered his mouth and nose. “Stay alive.”
Zevander had never seen the rotunda room inside General Loyce’s palace, where he and the other gold-painted slaves had been taken, but it was just as opulent as the one where he spent most of his days. White stone firepits stood about the room, casting a flickering glow over the white walls and their delicate gold details. A domed ceiling loomed directly above a dark, cavernous pit. Covered by a steel grate, it reminded him of the one in Bonegrist.
Guests clutching glasses of wine peered down inside, undoubtedly hoping for a glimpse of the beasts caged there.
Polished, golden manacles bit into Zevander’s wrists, as he stood alongside the other painted slaves, on display for the many guests. Two orgoths flanked either side of the line, watching over them, while the oglers dared to walk past, giggling to themselves as they sipped their drinks. At least four-dozen highbloods scattered about the room like vultures, silks and jewels glinting in the dim light, while their murmurs and stares dripped with hunger. Interspersed between them were servants, as well as the Bellatryx, donned in white leather suits, absent of their usual armor and easily identified by their muscular build.
Through the crowd, Zevander spied one of them speaking casually with Theron. The scar across the lower half of her face made Zevander’s own look like nothing more than a minor blemish hidden behind his mask.
Aradia, no doubt.
“I hear only a few of us will be standing by night’s end. Perhaps the only competition where death isn’t entirely a loss.”
Zevander snorted and turned to the slave beside him. His dark green hair was a strange contrast to the gold of his skin. He’d never seen him before, not even in the mines. “You’re one of Loyce’s Gildona?”
“Aradia’s. Name’s Dravien Nockvayne.”
Zevander turned his attention back to the Bellatryx still conversing with Theron, who mingled freely, without his shackles. “And how is Aradia?”
“You’re asking the demeanor of my abuser? Well, she certainly didn’t force me to wear a muzzle.”
“Careful. I might be inclined to strangle you with my chains.”
“What poetry that would be.” He nodded toward Theron. “Is he one of the general’s?”
“Yes.”
“A favorite. How wonderful. Let me guess…he has a small cock, but an important skill.”
Zevander’s lips pulled to a half-smile. “I cannot confirm the size of his cock, but yes. He mends wounds.”
“Watch him,” Dravien warned. “He didn’t get where he is without betrayal. It is the only path to elevation.”
“I’ve kept my eye on him. I trust no one.” Zevander glanced toward his fellow slave. “My sincere apologies to you, by the way.”
“Apologies for what?”
“That you’re going to die tonight.”
Dravien chuckled. “Your humor certainly makes up for your lack of beauty.”
