Page 4 of Devour
“You should,” Astella says, this time finding her voice. “They’ve mutilated the land, magic, and people alike. You won’t survive if they take you.”
Lorraine grimaces, clearly offended by her words.
Not everyone in our world believes in the darkest tales about the cult. Some consider them saviors. Others, just a strange religion that should be ignored.
There’s a long pause, as our differing opinions linger in the air.
“We need to stop riding for just a little while,” I say firmer. “We can begin again once they’re gone.”
Lorraine glares at Astella, again with a look that provokes my protective instincts. It’s the look of hate.
“We only have an hour or two of daylight. We’ve lost enough time as it is.” She eyes Troy.
“Enough,” he grumbles. “Enough listening to a strange child.”
Lorriane nods sharply. Her lip curls as she says, “We will not bow to witchcraft.”
Troy whips the reigns and encourages the horse to continue our bumpy ride.
Astella mumbles under her breath as the carriage rattles, “You will not bow to witchcraft, but you will bow to death.”
2
Haze
Hope is a dangerous creature.
It is a disease that slithers into your veins and seeps into your bones, yearning for escape where there is none.
Once infected, it will drive you to the brink of insanity, clawing for any chance at freedom, even knowing each swipe of desperate fingers will only bury you deeper.
I’ve learned to ignore the frantic whispers of hope. The Drak’yn expect obedience.
I follow my squad leader. I fight when told. I am quiet every moment between.
Ivar lifts a fist at the top of the hill, and our small squad halts in unison, boots stilling in the soft mix of dust, dirt, and black sand, awaiting his command.
Nothing here gives the illusion of hope. Not anymore. The misshapen buildings with doors wide open, some windows smashed, others boarded. This village was once large and prosperous. Dozens of cottages are scattered through the area around the town square. The farmlands are expansive enough to feed a community of a hundred with plenty to spare for trade.
For one moment, I imagine the smell of freshly baked bread, but then the bitter scent of decay assaults me, welcoming me to another grave.
Ivar leads us through the main square. The buildings are not incredibly old, but even so, there is a distinct weight to everything. The thatched roofs bow in from pools of sand; several doors hang crooked.
Wind scatters dark glistening sand, rising up in a tiny cyclone, leaving behind exposed cloth and then the bones of hand.
“May Nihil be pleased,” Ivar says. My squad leader is bulkier than the rest of us, wearing a red hood, where ours are black. Otherwise, we look identical in black uniforms and masks that cover all but our eyes.
We repeat the phrase in unison.
“Famine beat us to this one,” Ronan mutters as he nudges more sand with his boot then shakes the piles of bones, revealing the remains of a woman. Her brown dress is the only indication of her gender. Ronan presses the sole of his boot to her skull, and the brittle bone crumbles under the slight pressure.
“And the crows,” Ivar says, looking up at the nearby trees, where the black birds caw in our direction. The body has been picked clean.
The acidic sands have poisoned crops, leading to spreading famine. Since we now control the trade routes through the desert, the remaining villages have little choice—they must flee or starve.
Those few who survive belong to the Drak.
Looking around at this village, it’s clear many chose to flee, likely into the desert, where they were almost certainly swallowed whole by the poisonous sands or beasts eager to devour any and all flesh.
