Page 137 of Eldritch
“I defy the gods. I defy them. And they take. The beast. It slumbers in my body. I feel it. The scorpion crawls over my bones.”
“How long has he been like this?” General Loyce’s voice was a distant sound that interrupted his thoughts.
“Days.” The voice that answered, he recognized from his abuses.
No more than silhouettes in his mind, the two of them stood before him, their presence indiscernible, as if he teetered on the edge of a dream.
“Get him out of here. Bathe him. Feed him.” A tone of disgust dulled the sharp bite of her order.
“He won’t take food, General. He’s refused.”
“Force him.” The words echoed through the cell, and as her shadow faded out of view, Zevander lowered his head once more.
“I defy the gods. I defy them. And they take. The beast. It slumbers in my body. I feel it. The scorpion crawls over my bones. Vengeance. It feeds on nothing more.”
The burn at his wrists intensified, and Zevander collapsed, tumbling like a sack of flour to the floor. Jolts of pain shot through his cheekbone, jabbing at his temples like a sharpened blade. The cold of the stony floor seeped into his skin, a minor balm to the cuts and bruises there. Rough hands yanked him to his feet and dragged him through the corridor, the unforgiving grit tearing into his skin. Too weak to raise his head, he watched the ground pass beneath him, as he soared through the corridor like a bird.
Was that how death felt? One last fanciful flight?
“The beast. It slumbers in my body. I feel it. The scorpion crawls over my bones. Vengeance. It feeds on nothing more. Come, take me. Let me sleep.”
“You aren’t sleeping anytime soon,” the guard said, hoisting him over the edge of a low wall.
Icy water rose up to meet him, and Zevander sank beneath the surface, the air pounding in his chest for the breath he’d failed to take.
Push to the surface!his mind screamed, but he’d hung from those chains for so long, his limbs no longer moved at his command. He drifted lower, and opened his eyes to a murky gray, where a flickering light overhead illuminated a face.
A hallucination?
Perhaps. But welcomed.
It was her. The girl with midnight hair and stormy eyes staring back at him, with such warmth, he didn’t mind the cold that numbed his limbs.
A sharp yank of his arm dragged him upward, and Zevander breached the water’s surface on a gasp of air. As the guard sat him upright onto a jutting ledge, Zevander managed to turn his head just enough to see he’d been placed into a deep, stone bath.
Rough hands jostled him, the scent of herbs clogging his nose, as the hands washed him. Zevander’s face remained in a constant wince, while their calloused palms scraped over one of his opened wounds. After minutes of scratching and scrubbing their nails into his flesh, he was dunked below the surface again, then brought back up for more washing. Dunked again. Washed again.
Blood reddened the water, his injuries screaming as his body trembled in shock. He was grateful for the icy water that numbed his flesh against the splitting of his wounds.
After one final dunk, he was dragged out of the bath, his bruised spine scraping over the stones, and made to stand on his weakened legs. Zevander swayed, his knees buckling, as the guard yanked a tunic over his head.
He stared down at himself, watching blood seep into the white cotton. Shocks of pain stabbed his shins and knees, as a zephromyte soldier gripped his shoulder, forcing him out of the room. Unsteady in his steps, he staggered down the corridor, his legs weak. A hard shove forced him into a different cell, where he tumbled to the floor, the air in his lungs knocked out of him. Hoisted by the nape of his neck, his body flew through the air and came down hard against an unforgiving surface. Zevander opened his eyes to find himself in a wooden chair, the guards buckling leather straps at his arms. The zephromyte stood nearby, his presence rattling Zevander’s already frayed nerves.
“What you doin’?” Zevander asked, but the guard didn’t bother to answer.
Instead, he fixed a strange contraption to his mouth, attached to a clay funnel that weighed against his lower jaw, holding it open.
Zevander’s protests arrived as nothing more than mumbled groans. Another guard arrived with a bowl, the slop contained within it sloshing over the side as he passed it to the first guard, who poured some of the slop into the funnel.
In seconds, the viscous fluids struck the back of Zevander’s throat. He coughed and gagged, the flow of it nonstop, as he sputtered and fought for breath. His body shook, and with all the strength he had left, he jerked and twisted in his bindings.
His throat relented, and the liquid oats slipped down. Once the funnel was clear, he drew in a heaving breath through his nose and coughed again in a failed attempt to release the bits that stuck to his dry gullet.
The guard lined the bowl at the edge of the funnel again.
Panic wound through Zevander, his muscles rigid, as he shook against his binds.
“Steady him,” the guard growled, and the zephromyte stepped from the corner and pinned back his shoulders.
