Page 50 of Eldritch
Both moons had moved across the sky, and while it hadn’t yet darkened enough to light fires during the day, the agony of the sun’s rays had begun to wane.
A relief for Zevander, who hadn’t slept much the night before. He held out his bowl to the squatty Elvyniran ladling out the gray-colored slop Zevander had eaten twice a day for the last five years. While the Elvyniran added a bit more to his bowl, he handed over only one piece of bread, instead of the usual two.
Remorse swirled in the Elvyniran’s eyes. “Sorry. Warden’s orders,” he said in a low voice.
Lips pressed together, Zevander nodded, tucking the bread into the pocket of his ragged trousers for his father and took a seat at the far end of a long, wooden table, where he usually sat with Kazhimyr and Ravezio.
“He’s essentially ordering you to die.” Ravezio tore a bite of bread away with his teeth. “What orgoth lets his opponent walk away from the pit?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
Jaw set, Kazhimyr shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
“What choice do I have?” Zevander crinkled his nose at the off-putting odor of rotted meat scraps, ground into a soggy mix of grains and fat. It was the only source of vivicantem they received in the place. Just enough to keep their energy up and their muscles formed for laborious work.
“Jagron undoubtedly has coin on you,” Ravezio cut in, and as he spooned some of the slop into his mouth, his throat bobbed with a restrained gag. “He’s not going to let his best labor horse, the one who single-handedly supplies his extra rations and the occasional woman, get crushed by an orgoth.”
The guards overseeing the younger prisoners were awarded privileges for the amount of ore mined each day. In some cases, Zevander had toiled hard enough to earn Jagron favor from the warden.
“Precisely,” Kazhimyr agreed. “Tell him about the threat against your father. At worst, you might have to suffer a few knocks and bruises. But you might live. Your father might live.”
“What is this shit!” A newer prisoner two seats down shot up from the table and hurled his bowl onto the floor, sending slop splashing across a guard’s boots. “Rotted meat? You expect us to work in this heat on rotted meat? It smells like a pig’s ass!”
The guard glanced down to the slop and back to the prisoner, his face eerily stoic. “Eat it.”
Snorting, the prisoner glanced around, not one of the nearby prisoners offering a lick of support. The smug grin on his face sobered and hardened into anger. “I’m not eating that shit.”
“I’ll not ask you again.”
“And I’ll not tell you—” A loud screech of agony bled past the prisoner’s lips, and he scratched at his throat, as if an invisible force were throttling him.
Zevander didn’t need to see the glyph glowing on the palm of the guard’s hand. He knew what magic he wielded, having felt it himself long ago. Like molten steel dragged across the flesh.
Paingiver.
The prisoner fell to his knees. “Please! Stop! Stop!” He let out a sharp outcry, as if the guard had issued one more strike of pain, before he went silent.
“Now. Eat.”
Through shaky breaths, the prisoner fell onto all fours and lowered himself to the guard’s boots. After a quiet whimper, he dragged his tongue and lips across the floor, slurping up the liquid meat, the sight of him twisting Zevander’s lips.
Without warning, the guard drew back his boot and hammered it into the prisoner’s face, knocking him backward onto the stony floor.
Kazhimyr let out a snort and shook his head again. “Stupid bastard,” he muttered, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth.
Zevander stirred the slop with his spoon, recalling the days he’d once challenged the guards. The foolish days when he’d suffered at the hands of damned near every guard in the mines. He’d grown weary of the constant beatings, but he’d often wondered what it said about him that he hadn’t suffered a beating in well over a year. “Are we not dogs yielding to our masters? All of us?”
In his periphery, Kazhimyr frowned. “We’re alive. Which is more than we can say for half of the cunts who arrived with us.”
“And, more importantly, it’s why you’re going to have a little chat with Jagron,” Ravezio added, pointing his spoon at Zevander. “See to it that you’re not turned into slop dust seasoning for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
“And if he can’t?”
Eyes sharp with worry, Kazhimyr turned to Zevander. “Don’t lose. No matter the consequence.”
The creak of the water cart alerted Zevander to his father’s approach, and he turned to find the old man hobbling along, water splashing as he seemed to hurry toward him.
With a furtive glance around, checking the guards paid him no attention, Zevander reached into his pocket and retrieved the bread he’d smuggled. Not an extra ration, unfortunately, but his own.
His father gripped his arm before Zevander had the chance to reveal what was inside. “I’ve received word of the fight and the consequences of your victory.”
