Page 54 of Eldritch
From the blackness of the hollow, Zevander saw two long, black spider legs emerge, and he backed away, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw. Glowing eyes watched him from the hollow, while he distanced himself, uncertain of where he was headed.
It didn’t matter.
Something about that tree left an unsettling dread in his gut, and he needed to get as far away from it as possible.
The forest shifted in his periphery, and his head throbbed with a pounding ache. He glanced around at the surrounding trees, the view wobbling and shifting. A queasy sickness writhed in his stomach and expanded into his chest. Wavering on his feet, he attempted to scan the dark tree line and spotted the white rabbit he’d been hunting before.
Pangs of hunger churned in his stomach, the thought of fresh rabbit making his mouth water. He staggered toward it, that hunger stirring inside of him, gnawing at his insides, refusing to be ignored, and he stalked toward his prey.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ZEVANDER
Past…
Bonegrist was a vast cavern, deep in the gut of the mines, that housed the ancient ruins of a once-glorious arena where men were said to have been pitted against dragons and other dangerous beasts. It was believed to have fallen from glory when a massacre broke out and everyone perished—nobles and slaves, alike. For years after, it’d been sealed off, thought to have been plagued by a rotting evil, but had since reopened. Not for its precious stone walls, nor the vivicantem undoubtedly held deep within them, but for blood and the countless souls it consumed in the name of entertainment.
A bloodstained platform sat in the heart of the cavern, encircled by a dark and shadowy chasm that looked as if it’d been rended from the black rock by the gods themselves. High above the pit loomed iron balconies, divided by six towers, that jutted out over ominous grotesques, which held the weight of spectators, mostly dignitaries and royal elite, who watched for sport. The base of each tower, the battlements of which reachedtoward the tapered ceiling, housed each sector of prisoners, the iron bars caging them until their turn to fight.
Braziers set about the cavern illuminated delicately-carved depictions of dragons and demons protruding from the surrounding jagged rock walls, with a separate platform where guards and wardens crowded together. Luminous gold carvings of Solassion glyphs cast a sinister glow over the crowd of hungry sadists who craved blood.
Zevander held out his cuffed wrists, as a guard linked one of the many chains dangling from the ceiling onto the steel loop. On his forearm sat the mark of his prodozja, the same black scorpion that stretched across his back. How he wished he could call on it again, just as he had when he’d been a young boy and Branimir’s spiders had attacked him. How swiftly his scorpions had jumped to his defense, then seared themselves into his body. They hadn’t stirred in the time he’d been imprisoned, though, suppressed by the same bands that ensured he’d never call upon his blood magic.
A half-dozen prisoners cranked a wheel at the opposite end of the arena, and the chain lifted Zevander into the air. The manacles gnawed at his wrists as they carried him over the abysmal depths of the chasm, where he imagined piles of bones lay at the bottom of all that blackness. The moment his feet hit the platform in the center of it, a boy, no more than twelve, unhooked his manacles. Once free, Zevander rubbed his wrists, watching the child take hold of the chain, which carried him back to the other side of the chasm where the guards stood.
Across from him, a monstrous beast of a prisoner touched down with a hard thud, his excessively muscled body riddled in scars. Bright blue eyes, pale skin with blue undertones and a small patch of blond hair at the top of his head. Another young boy quickly removed his shackles and cuffs, but as the child reached for the flitting chain, the orgoth slapped him hard on theback, hurling the poor boy into the chasm. Screams echoed over the ruckus of laughter as the boy disappeared into the depths.
A gesture that assured Zevander his opponent had no regard for etiquette. Or life.
Zevander glanced around but found no friendly faces in the crowd—only the bloodthirsty grins of men who’d waged coin against him—but he knew, somewhere, Jagron would be watching, likely praying for his victory. He’d pulled the orgoth aside earlier in the day, making him privy to his dilemma, to which the guard assured that his father would suffer no consequences if Zevander survived. Even if he put little faith in the guard’s promise, what choice did he have?
He scanned over the beastly orgoth set as his opponent. Their kind were said to fight like an iron hammer—cold and merciless with their razor-sharp teeth and those tusks that served as natural weapons. The pulsing vein at the beast’s throat consumed Zevander’s focus as the two stepped cautiously toward each other—the vitaelis vein. One strike was all Zevander needed to kill his opponent instantly. Just one to sever that precious vein, which fed their brains and hearts—a trick Jagron had shared with him earlier that day.
The only problem with that?
Those fucking tusks.
He’d have to get past them to reach the vein, and not one imprisoned mancer without magic at his disposal had ever successfully accomplished the task.
The orgoth let out a vicious roar that echoed through the arena, and a cold rush of adrenaline surged through Zevander’s muscles.
Enormous hands balled into tight fists of rage, and the orgoth charged forward, every hardthunkof his feet was an ominous vibration through the rock. Zevander charged, as well, but just as the orgoth raised his oversized hand to grabhim, Zevander slid to the ground, passing through the giant’s legs. Speed and evasion would be Zevander’s only methods of defense, until he could think of a way to attack that protected vein.
An angry roar echoed across his skull, as the beast swung around for him, and Zevander jumped to his feet, studying his opponent for any other weak spots.
The orgoth charged again, closing the space between them, likely anticipating the same move in the way he kept lower to the ground.
Zevander pivoted left, dodging him, but he caught the hem of Zevander’s shirt as he passed. In one swing, the back of the beast’s hand smashed into Zevander’s jaw. A flash of light struck the back of his eyes, momentarily blinding him, his jaw rattling with bolts of pain that penetrated his bones. He stumbled backward, disoriented, and fell against the iron grates on the floor of the platform.
Two orgoths scrambled for him through his blurred vision. In the haze of panic, he couldn’t decide which was the actual beast, or which way to roll out of the way. In a split-second decision, he rolled left, and his leg caught beneath the giant’s foot. Zevander let out an agonized roar as the brunt of the beast’s weight came down on his ankle.
The orgoth lost his footing, tumbling head-first onto the grate. He growled and wriggled, and Zevander pulled himself over the ground just enough to see the orgoth’s tusk had gotten caught in the iron crosshatch.
Zevander pushed to his feet, the pain in his ankle shooting up into his calf, and in the scramble to get loose, the orgoth yanked himself away from the grate on a thunderous crack of splintering bone, followed by a howl of rage and agony. Still lodged in the grate was half the orgoth’s tusk, the other half nothing morethan a jagged stump. With fury etched in his expression, fists clenched tight, the orgoth charged again.
Zevander attempted another pivot, but his ankle protested, sending sharp spears into his muscles.
A meaty arm slammed into his chest, and Zevander flew backward onto the ground. Wind blasted out of his lungs, and he turned over to his stomach, wheezing for a sip of air. Pressure struck his back, knocking out the last bits of oxygen, before he was hoisted up into the air.
