Page 55 of Eldritch
Eyes wide, he choked and coughed, his chest clenched and begging for breath, as he stared down over the edge of the platform below him, into the depthless black chasm.
“Quick death?” the orgoth roared, holding Zevander suspended above his head by the back of his neck.
The crowd booed.
Zevander’s body flew through the air, as the orgoth threw him in the other direction, and the unyielding rock crashed into his arm. Against the tight fist squeezing his lungs, he sucked in shallow breaths, until he could draw a small inhale.
“You want blood!” the orgoth taunted the crowd, and Zevander rolled onto his elbows, each breath longer than the last. “Should I tear away his limbs?”
The wild shouts from the crowd answered in agreement.
In his mind’s stubborn refusal to accept his fate, Zevander pulled himself on weak arms to get away.
The beast’s hand cuffed his ankle and yanked him back.
Hands clutched to the iron gates below him, Zevander resisted the pull and caught sight of the tusk within arm’s reach. Another heft of his leg drew him further away, but Zevander clutched the grates, in spite of the burn in his stretched limb. He curled his fingers around the thick tusk, but before he could grip it, another rough jostle of his leg sent him flying toward the orgoth.
Zevander hammered his foot into the beast’s mangled face, which earned him a feral growl.
Rolling onto his stomach, Zevander reached out for the tusk again, and the orgoth scrambled over top of him.
With one jarring wrench of his body, Zevander’s arm swung out, piercing that throbbing vein below the orgoth’s broken tusk.
Eyes wide with horror, the orgoth tugged the sharp end of his tusk from the vein.
A spray of deep-red blood splashed onto Zevander’s face.
The beast tottered to the side, letting out a grunt and allowing just enough time for Zevander to scoot from beneath him.
The orgoth collapsed face-first, hitting the rock with a thud that vibrated beneath him.
Pushing to his feet, Zevander stared down at his opponent, breaths sawing in and out of his battered lungs. He’d defeated him. Killed his first orgoth. By the gods, he’d survived.
While a few in the crowd cheered him on, those who’d wagered against him jeered and booed.
Peeling his gaze from the fallen orgoth, he dared to face them all and caught sight of Jagron, front and center. Bruises and cuts marred his face and body, as if he’d suffered horrific torture. One of the chains used to lift the prisoners onto the platform had been wrapped around his neck, his arms bound behind his back.
Zevander’s blood turned to ice.
The noise died to a hush.
“I’m sorry,” Jagron said, and in the next breath, his hulking body was hoisted into the air. The orgoth kicked and wriggled, strangled by the chain at his throat that throttled that precious vein. Until, seconds later, he stilled.
“Zevander.”
The sound of his father’s voice sent a chill down his spine, and he lowered his gaze to where his father stood just across thechasm from him. He screwed his eyes shut, refusing to let the emotions free.
“Look at me, Son.” The elder Rydainn’s voice held a steady strength, in spite of his weak form.
When he opened his eyes, the orgoth guard at his father’s back wore a sinister smile, hands flexing to taunt him. Beside him stood the warden, wearing a grin that Zevander could’ve easily knocked hollow right then.
“Look at me, Zevander.”
Eyes burning with the threat of tears, he stared back into his father’s sad, rheumy eyes.
“You are born of fire. You will rise from the ashes.”
The orgoth took hold of his father’s skull, and Zevander lurched to the edge of the platform.
