Page 145 of Eldritch
Present …
“You look terrible.” With his sword still pointed at him, Theron’s eyes scanned over him. “You’re dying. I won’t fight a dying man.” He shoved his sword back into the scabbard at his back.
“I’m not dying, you arrogant ass. I’m low on vivicantem.” Head still throbbing, Zevander pushed to his feet, staggering backward a step.
“You’ll slip into absolute delirium, if you don’t consume flesh, or blood. Mancer is most potent, as you know, but human blood will provide just enough to keep you from slipping away.”
In times of famine, when supplies of vivicantem were low, the ancients sometimes raided other villages and cities, seizing their strongest men to drain and consume for survival. They were horror stories, tales of caution told alongside those of the Carnificans, who consumed too much out of greed.
Two of Theron shrank to a single form, as Zevander shook his head and focused on his foe. “I’m not interested in consuming human flesh.”
“You’ll hurt her. Your precious mate will die at your hands.”
The truth in his words tore at Zevander’s heart, but he gnashed his teeth at the mention of her. “What do you care? You long to turn her over to a woman who’d revel in her pain.”
He stared at him a moment. “We never made good rivals, you and me. What if I were to help you, instead? Would you free me from General Loyce’s grasp?” His brows lowered. “Would you forgive me?”
“That kind of forgiveness requires trust.”
“Then let us establish trust.” He jerked his head. “Come.” When Zevander didn’t make a move toward him, he sighed. “For her.”
Reluctantly, Zevander followed Theron, his enemy, as he led him through the maze of dark corridors, chiding himself for being so easily swayed.
At last, they arrived before a cell.
Inside, lay an older man, dressed in a tattered red robe that barely clung to the skeletal bow of his spine. With the man’s back to him, Zevander didn’t immediately notice the long, gray beard, tangled like brambles, until the older man glanced over his shoulder. Eyes wide with fear, he gasped, turning back to the wall, and whispered to himself.
White-chalked words decorated the walls around the prisoner, nearly every inch, aside from a water-streaked patch, covered in scribbles, as if he’d lived in the cell for ages.
“He’s fated to die in this cell,” Theron said beside him.
“What’s his crime?”
“Does it matter?”
On the floor below him, two names had been scratched into the stone: Maevyth and Aleysia. Zevander crouched low, reaching his hand past the bars to run his finger over their names. “Who is he?”
“As I said, it doesn’t matter. For you, he’s sustenance. Survival.”
Zevander’s brow flickered, his conscience screaming at him.
“Go on, then. Kill him. Consume his flesh to keep your strength,” Theron taunted.
“You’re suggesting that I consume raw human flesh. Are you mad?”
“No, but you will be, if you don’t cast aside your reservations and eat.”
Below Zevander’s bent knee lay a rusted nail, which must’ve fallen out of the wooden chair that was propped against the wall inside the cell.
“Do not think too much on it.” Theron continued to urge him, his sudden concern over him uncoiling Zevander’s suspicions.
Swiping up the rusted nail, Zevander shot to his feet, unsheathing his sword before Theron could so much as reach for his. He held the blade to Theron’s throat and punched the nail into his enemy’s stomach. “Rust,” he said. “Dulls the senses.” It would prevent him using any part of his magic—vanishing, or healing. Only temporarily, but Zevander didn’t require much time to carry out his plan.
Theron grunted and growled. “I’m trying to help you!”
“You’re trying to infect me.”
“Well, that wouldn’t establish much trust, would it?”
