Page 21 of Eldritch
“Rather scrawny crop, isn’t it?” Her gaze lingered on Zevander, eyes scanning him up and down, before she made her way back down the line in the other direction.
The boy behind him whispered, “The Bellatryx.”
“Who are they?”
“Solassion warriors. Said to be half orgoth. I heard they’re cannibals and sadists.”
A grip on Zevander’s shoulder startled him, and on instinct, he spun around, fist swinging. His knuckles smashed into the guard’s jaw, and the older man stumbled backward.
Zevander had simply wanted to escape. He hadn’t intended to attack the guard. No choice but to run at that point. Spinning on his heel, he darted in the opposite direction, toward the Bellatryx. One of the guards barreled toward him, and Zevander ducked as the guard swung out, slipping past him on all fours like a rampant rodent. He pushed to his feet and pivoted to the right, dodging another approaching guard, the tip of the guard’s blade just grazing his arm. He’d learned to be fast, to catch prey, or avoid competing predators, the many times his father had taken him hunting.
Ahead of him stood the Bellatryx. Once past them, he’d find himself in the main tunnel. Perhaps confronted by more guards. And what about Father?
He didn’t have time to think about Father right then. Zevander was certain, at that point, if the guards caught him, they’d undoubtedly kill him.
One of the boys toward the end of the line, as if inspired by his act of defiance, darted forward and dropped to all fours, crawling through the legs of the bulky Bellatryx across from him.
Zevander expected them to be slow and sluggish beneath their pauldrons and breast plates, but before the boy could slip by, a long, golden blade impaled his back with the smooth glide of liquid silk.
Zevander ground to a halt, watching the Bellatryx soldier lift the skewered boy into the air by the sword.
Horror swelled in his chest on hearing the boy scream, crying out for his father as he slid down the length of the blade. Histrembling hands gripped its beautifully beveled edges that slid through his finger bones, lopping them off with ease.
Air caught in Zevander’s throat, his lungs thick with fear.
The other Bellatryx laughed as their fellow soldier lowered the boy to his feet and drove the blade upward, splitting him in two halves that fell to the ground in athunkof bloody meat. Once free of the boy’s carcass, the Bellatryx ran her tongue over the broad side of the blade, licking the blood from the steel.
“He even tastes weak,” she said, and more laughs erupted as she wiped the remains with a kerchief, before sheathing her sword.
A firm hand gripped Zevander’s shoulder, and he spun in time to see a fist rushing toward his face. It connected with a splitting crack across his cheek, rattling his teeth, and his vision blurred.
Blackness followed.
Searing pain tore through Zevander’s mind, and he opened his eyes to blackness. At least, he imagined his eyes were open, could feel the flutter of his eyelids while he attempted to blink. He gasped a breath, his hands flitting through the dark to ensure he could move, searching for evidence of injury.
He felt nothing but the thin clothing he’d worn, absent of any wet patches of blood or gaping wounds. A hard wall pressed beneath his haunches, where he sat slumped against it.
A blinding light filtered in, one far too bright, and he raised his arm to shield his eyes, just making out a dark figure in the center of his view.
The distinct shape of a hooded cloak left him guessing who the stranger might be.
The hood lowered, casting light across a face he didn’t recognize. Pale skin. Light colored eyes. A few scattered wrinkles and slightly weathered skin put him at about his father’s age.
Pushing to his feet, Zevander looked around, searching for some familiarity in the shadows, but he couldn’t see past that ray of light.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Beyond the confines of consciousness and sleep,” the stranger answered in a deep, raspy voice. “Caligorya.”
He’d heard of Caligorya before—a place in the deepest part of the mind where healers sometimes sent those who’d been gravely injured. The Shadow Realm. A place of quiet without pain, but also darkness. A lawless hellscape for some.
Zevander frowned. “Am I dying?”
“No. But were you awake, you’d wish for death, I’m certain.”
“Who are you?”
“An old friend.”
