Page 59 of Eldritch
“The uprising in Costelwick has stirred a bit of unrest and suspicion in the surrounding villages. Folks don’t appreciate a king who starves his people. While you don’t look like king’s men, you’re strangers here. You may want to find shelter somewhere outside of Susurria. If you’re looking for a place, there’s the old coaching inn just outside of town.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“Of course. I’ll wait to hear from you in the morning.”
Kazhimyr kept his eyes on the burly men as he strode past them and out of the tavern. While taking on multiple opponents at once would be nothing new for the trained assassins, they weren’t interested in drawing attention to themselves. Instead, they quietly slipped out of the tavern—where they found their horses lying in two bloody heaps, still tied to their posts.
Their necks had been slit.
A slow, blinding rage stirred in Kazhimyr’s gut, his blood magic tingling with the need to be turned loose. No doubt, that gesture he’d noticed had played a role in them losing their mounts.
“We’re doing this, aren’t we?” Ravezio asked, and let out a sigh, sliding one of his daggers out of its sheath. “No one slaughters my stead without punishment.”
Kazhimyr yanked his sword from its scabbard and pushed through the door of the tavern. His senses flared, the sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the air. He ducked, yanking Ravezio with him just as a sword sliced toward him, only a hairsbreadth from his head. The attacker, momentarily weaponless, reached for the next blade, but not before Kazhimyr swung out. One quick slash of his enemy’s thigh severed the femoral vein, spilling copious blood onto the tavern floor. The man howled and stumbled away, running into nearby tables.
Behind Kazhimyr, a clang of steel alerted him to Ravezio’s fight with a scraggly-bearded miner whose face was covered in soot. The basilisk on the arm of his fellow Letalisz damn near glowed, begging to turn something to stone.
Another attacker drove forward, right for Kazhimyr, his blade longer. Kazhimyr blocked and parried with a grunt, driving him back into the table behind him. A swift jab into his heart ended the fight quicker than it’d begun.
Heat streaked across his arm, and he turned to see yet another villager slicing into his bicep. Kazhimyr hiked up his boot, kicking the man backward, and carved a diagonal line through his chest, then finished with a horizontal strike across his belly that spilled his entrails onto the floor.
To the right of him, Ravezio fought with what appeared to be his third attacker, given the two bodies that lay bleeding out on the floor.
Again, his senses flared, only seconds before he felt the sharp prod of a blade at his back. One breath and it could’ve pierced his heart. Instead, the deadly tip of it fell away, and Kazhimyr turned to see Dravien yanking his blade from the attacker’s skull.
The body plopped to the floor with a hard thud, and lips thinned, Dravien sighed, wiping the broad side of the blade across the man’s tunic.
“Thanks,” Kazhimyr said, shoving the sword back into its scabbard as he turned back toward the bar, where a half-dozen men lay bleeding out.
“Looks like you’re going to need horses.” Dravien nodded toward the man he’d killed. “So happens, I know where this clotpole’s farm is.”
“You’ll only tell us if we agree to hire you, though, right?”
“That’d make me an unreasonable cunt.” He stood tapping his finger against the pommel of his sword. “But, yeah. You agree, and I’ll take you there.”
A sound of disapproval rumbled in Kazhimyr’s throat, and he twisted around to see Ravezio shrug. “Fine. You get us to Calyxar for a thousand liro.”
“Well, the horses are going to up the ante to a thousand and a quarter, I’m afraid.”
“Fine.” Kazhimyr slammed his fist in the Elvinyran’s face, the force knocking him onto his ass. “That’s for the horses whose throats you had slit. Cunt.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ZEVANDER
Past …
The cold, damp wall pressed into Zevander’s bruised back, as he sat slumped on the gritty floor of his cell, staring off into the darkness.
Alone.
Completely alone in this place.
While he hadn’t seen his father in years, up until a few days ago, he’d always taken comfort in knowing he was there. Seeing his father again had given him a sense of peace and hope—hope that faded the moment he’d heard the pained sound of his mother’s name rip from the elder Rydainn’s throat.
Wrists bound and resting in his lap, he clenched his fists at the memory, the rage pounding through him anew. Finally knowing the truth of his father’s actions, Zevander could no longer bury the agony of his death in hatred and indifference. The pain split through him like a scab being torn open, and he clenched his teeth, swallowing back the urge to break.
The obnoxious creak of the cell door alerted him that someone had come to visit, but he didn’t bother to look up.Surely, it wouldn’t be anyone he’d have called friend, confirmed when the warden said, “Brought your supper.”
