Page 19 of Eldritch
He tucked the necklace into his pocket.
CHAPTER SIX
ZEVANDER
Past …
With legs as heavy as logs, Zevander trudged through the soft sand, the intense Solassion sun beating down on the back of his neck where his sigil practically sizzled in the heat. The chain at his throat extended to the cuff at his father’s ahead of him, and to that of the fellow prisoner’s to his rear.
The line of prisoners marched toward the gated entrance of a massive structure that looked as if it’d been birthed from the jagged mountains into which it’d been carved. As they passed through the iron gate, Zevander could make out an intricately etched relief, which depicted the Soladei and their inferior gods, Heliorchs—or sunwardens, as they were known—who were whipping what he guessed were mancers, as small and weak as they appeared by comparison.
He knew from countless history lessons that many of the slaves said to have been captured by the Soladei were Lunasier.
Above them, the sun flickered like a hungry pyre against an ominous gray sky as if anxious to devour him. How the world could be so dark with such an intense source of light was a mystery of the gods.
“Do you see it?” the older man behind him rasped. “In the sky? The dragon has come to save us! He’s a friend of mine, you know?” He’d been ranting and raving for most of the trek, his mind clearly deteriorating as the endless day wore on. He’d seemed fine days before, when they’d sat in the tumbril bound for Solassios, talking about his ailing wife left to fend for herself. “You hear me, boy? Are you listening to me?”
Zevander didn’t dare answer, as he’d already suffered the whip once for entertaining the man’s incessant inquiries. The wounds were still fresh and stinging.
“My dragon friend will burn them all to the ground with the black flame. Sablefyre. Did you know sablefyre is the only element that can hatch a dragon’s egg? Used to be dragons in the mortal lands. But veins dried up, so the dragons left. Ever heard of dragon riders?”
The old man must’ve lost his senses, talking about dragon riders. Only a damned fool would dare to mount one of the unpredictable beasts. Zevander had once heard of a king’s mage who’d thought he was powerful enough to overcome a dragon. Ended up a pile of cinder.
“Know why mancers can’t control them?”
Zevander screwed his eyes shut and groaned, wishing the old codger would shut it already. Only a matter of time before the guards would hear his ramblings, and he’d be forced to endure yet another whipping.
“They’re gods. Dragons are gods, and only the dragon riders can?—”
A hard yank of his throat threw Zevander backward, and letting out a grunt, he grabbed the cuff that bit into his neck.Behind him, the older prisoner lay convulsing, the blue in his eyes clouded by a milky white. His pale skin, common for Lunasier, had begun to turn pink with patchy red blisters.
“Sun poisoning,” his father said at his back, and when Zevander shifted his gaze that way, he noticed his father’s skin had begun to turn pink, as well. “Poor bastard.”
“Poisoning?” He knew too much sun was hard on the Lunasier, which was why most kept covered in daylight, but he’d never heard of poisoning. How could the farmers back home avoid it, as much as they worked the fields?
As if his father could read his mind, he said, “Sun is different here. In the south, the moons protect us. They balance the humors. Here, the moons are farther away. Our blood isn’t made to endure it.”
Arms held out, Zevander noticed his own skin held a slight pink tone, but nowhere near as prominent as the older man’s. Or his father’s, for that matter.
The sound of a cracking whip snapped Zevander’s attention toward three approaching guards, and his father nudged him back.
“Get up, you lazy cunt!” Another snap of a whip struck the old man’s leg, slicing open one of the many blisters there. “Get your ass up before I whip it bloody!”
Zevander’s wounds flared at the thought of it.Get up, man,he urged.
The guard cracked his whip again, that time splitting open the old man’s forearm.
Nausea gurgled in Zevander’s throat, and he turned away.
“He’s succumbed to poisoning. Leave ‘im here,” one of the other guards urged. “Daylight’s waning.”
Hard to believe they called this daylight. Zevander had always imagined Solassios to be painfully luminous. Perhaps some parts were.
“Remove his cuff,” the whip-bearer guard ordered, and the third guard scrambled to unlock it.
As he attempted to yank the thick metal from the old man’s neck, it wouldn’t budge. “Think it seared to him.”
Frowning, Zevander stuffed his fingers into his own cuff, and though it fit snug against his throat, a small gap remained.
