by JA Hutson
And I do as well, though my time under the weaver’s ministrations was long ago. The healing power is accompanied by a swelling of pleasure that’s almost sexual. If I could see Deliah’s face, I’d wager it’s flushed.
“You should still rest,” Valyra says. “The parts of you that are mended will be fragile for a while.”
“Sorceress, thank you,” Deliah mutters, and I feel her shifting so that she can touch Valyra. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
Silence falls for a few heartbeats, and then Valyra clears her throat. “I am . . . more sorry. I was distraught at the thought of coming back here. You didn’t . . . you didn’t deserve my anger.”
“And me?” I ask, wanting to see if the weaver’s new-found perspective extends any farther.
“I haven’t totally forgiven you,” she says, noticeably chillier. “But I do recognize that you’re trying to do what you think is best.”
I’ll take that, and so I fall silent.
“Did you bring food?” Deliah asks, sitting up. “I’m starving.”
“Oh, yes,” Valyra says, and I hear her rummaging in a bag.
I fumble in the dark, assuming she’s holding out whatever she has brought, and my hands close around something moist and slippery. “What’s this?” I say in disgust, nearly dropping it.
“Mushrooms,” Valyra replies. “I ate some already, they’re rancid . . . but it seems to be what they eat down here.”
“No meat?” Deliah says, her disappointment clear.
“Well . . .”
“What is it?” I ask, unsettled by the weaver’s odd tone.
“There’s an excitement among the tribe now. If what I overheard is true . . . they are planning on eating you.”
“Eating us?” Bell hisses incredulously. I’m so shocked I can’t even muster a reply.
“I’m not certain,” Valyra says quickly. “They’re not talking to me directly. Gods, Talin, they’re so horrible. So different than my old tribe. This place . . . this place is a nightmare.”
“We have to get out,” I say firmly, my fingers curling around the iron bars. “Can you steal a key, Valyra?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I have to find out who might have one. Maybe that crazy old man . . . but Talin, he doesn’t trust me. None of them do. They want me to weave together all their injured, but I’m just a tool. If I couldn’t heal them I’d be in there with you, I know it.”
“But they give you some freedom,” Bell points out.
“I snuck away,” Valyra says. “They all curled up to go to sleep at exactly the same time. Even the guard who was supposed to be watching me. I don’t think they even conceived I could possibly be different.”
“You should get back,” I tell her. “If they find you gone you might be punished.”
There’s a scrape as she pulls away from the bars and stands up.
“Look for the key, Valyra. Please. We need you.”
“I will,” she murmurs, and then she’s gone, the patter of her footsteps quickly receding.
We’re quiet for a long moment.
“Cannibals?” Bell says, finally breaking the silence.
“What other meat is there to eat?” Deliah replies. “Nothing except monsters above and worms underground.”
“You almost sound like you’re excusing them,” I say, and the lamias gives a dry chuckle.
“In Vel we eat each other. If a great sister perishes, we partake of her flesh in a celebration of her life, so she will live within us always. It is our way.”
“I don’t think they mean to celebrate our lives,” Bell remarks. “Nor do I want to live within them. So what do we do?”
I give voice to what we’re all thinking. “We hope.”
I come awake.
In the darkness, Bell is gently snoring. Deliah has burrowed into my chest, and from her rhythmic breathing I can tell she’s also sleeping.
What has woken me? I concentrate, listening hard, praying to hear the sound of Valyra scurrying to us bearing the key to escape this prison.
But there’s nothing.
No, wait, something . . .
A scream, high pitched and female. Distant, but coming closer. Fear seizes me. Is it Valyra? Is she hurt, or being chased through these tunnels?
I nudge Deliah awake. The lamias doesn’t say anything, but her breathing changes.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper. Very faintly the scream comes again. “Is that . . . is that Valyra?”
The lamias lifts herself from the floor. “I don’t know. Who else could it be?”
My fear deepens. If Valyra was caught trying to steal the key, then we are doomed.
Deliah makes some sharp movement, and then Bell snorts awake.
“Ow! Why are you kicking me?”
“Listen,” Deliah says.
The screams are getting louder. Whoever it is, they are coming in this direction.
A faint glow creeps closer. I’m preparing myself to see a terrified and bloody Valyra come rushing towards us, but when the stumbling figure appears, it’s not her.
A young woman in a tattered gray dress emerges from the passage holding a glowing sphere. She looks frantic, and as she casts a terrified glance over her shoulder she goes sprawling, the lantern flying from her hand. She shrieks, reaching for it as it rolls away. I catch a glimpse of her face – wide-eyed, her face smeared with streaks of blood. The rents in her clothes look to be freshly made . . .
A shadow swells behind her, long and sinuous. Claws flash as a creature somewhere between a snake and a man lunges forward and latches on to her back. Another scream from the woman, this time pained. She tries to rise, but the weight bearing down on her is too much, and she collapses again, her blood-stained fingers scrabbling upon the stone. A final, agonized shriek ends in gurgling silence as the creature’s jaws close around the woman’s neck.
“Gods . . . what is that?” Bell murmurs beside me.
“I don’t know, but I have my suspicions,” I reply. This isn’t like any Shriven I’ve yet seen, but what else could it be?
“Do you think it can get to us?” Deliah asks, somehow calm.
The creature hasn’t noticed us yet, noisily ripping flesh from the woman’s body. It’s hard to tell because of its rapid movements, but I don’t think its serpentine body is thin enough to squeeze through the bars of our prison. Or at least that’s what I hope.
“No,” I say, more confidently than I truly feel. “But if it does, try and get behind it and grab its neck.”
“You’ve wrestled reptiles before,” Deliah says. Then she pauses, as if realizing that of course I have. “Ah, R’znek,” she says softly.
The snapping and tearing stops. Instead of slithering towards us, the snake-demon curls up on the corpse. It knows we’re here, though – in the light spilling from where the woman’s lantern has fallen I can see its eyes glowing like floating embers.
“Why is it waiting?” Bell hisses, her voice panicked.
No one answers. More faint screams carry to us from far away. Is Valyra all right? What is happening?
Again I hear footsteps approaching, but this is not the frantic patter of someone fleeing; rather, these steps are slow and unhurried. There’s also a scraping sound, like metal dragged against stone. I watch the passage with rising dread.
Bell’s hand finds mine, and she squeezes fiercely, her breathing ragged. She’s terrified. Deliah’s shadow doesn’t move, her attention fixed on the serpent-demon watching us.
A man emerges from the passage. He’s thickly built, his face hidden by the hood of his robes. The demon curled on the woman’s corpse flicks its head around on its long neck to glance at this newcomer, then returns to us.
This must be a Voice, the most human-like of the Shriven. If it pulls back its hood we will see a pale, malformed head with fish-like eyes and writhing blood-red lips. I’m expecting to feel its thoughts slither into my mind, my limbs becoming immobile as it exerts its will over my body.
This
is not something I can fight. Only Valyra’s sorcery has proven capable of breaking a Voice’s power. Somehow, incredibly, our situation has gotten even more hopeless.
The Voice saunters closer. It approaches where the lighted bauble lies on the floor and picks it up, turning it over as if interested in its construction. It tosses it in the air and catches it again. The scraping is getting louder. A larger shadow emerges from the passage, hunched and massive. It’s a Scythe, its long bony scimitars dragging on the floor. The creature pauses and recedes into the deeper darkness. The Voice watches the Shriven for a moment, then steps over the outstretched arm of the woman’s corpse, moving towards us.
Bell scrambles backwards, pulling on my hand as she tries to recede deeper into our cell, but I stay where I am, as does Deliah. I won’t give this thing the satisfaction of seeing me cower.
The Voice is just beyond the bars now, still holding the lantern. The glow illuminates simple gray robes, frayed at the hems, and a belly overhanging the belt cinching its waist. Its fingers look surprisingly human . . .
The Voice reaches up with its other hand and pulls back its hood.
Deliah gasps. It’s not a Voice. A man’s craggy, middle-aged face stares at us. There are fingers of gray in his black beard, and he regards us with his storm-gray silver eyes almost kindly, as if he were an uncle meeting his favorite nieces and nephew after a long time away.
Ezekal, the Prophet of Zim.
He smiles broadly, deepening the sense that he is pleased to see us. “Alesk. I’ve been looking for you.”
Another man bursts into the chamber. Despite the dimness I can tell that it’s one of the Azure warriors – he’s holding a long curving sword, and his ash-smeared body is streaked with black ichor. From his broad shoulders I suspect this might actually be the war leader who first brought us down here. His face is a mask of shock and dried blood, and he raises his sword as he nears where the Prophet stands outside our cell.
Ezekal does not turn around, though he must hear the stumbling steps coming closer.
Light skitters along the warrior’s blade as he draws it back.
Then he’s being lifted, a tapering length of bone emerging from his chest. He writhes, screaming and pulling futilely at the arm of the Scythe. The Prophet continues watching us, an avuncular smile on his face as the man’s struggles begin to slacken. When the warrior sags dead, the Scythe withdraws its bone scimitar, letting the corpse slide to the floor.
“Such a terrible place you’ve managed to put yourself,” the Prophet says, shaking his head sadly, still not recognizing the drama that had just played out behind him. “Come, let’s get you out of here.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a heavy black key. There’s the screech of rusty iron as he inserts it somewhere, and then the prison’s barred door swings wide.
The Prophet does not stop to see what we’ll do – he merely turns and begins walking back the way he first came.
“Let us find some fresh air,” he says over his shoulder as the Scythe and the serpentine Shriven fall in behind him.
He’s already entered the passage, the lantern’s light melting from the walls as he moves farther and farther away, when Deliah finally speaks.
“Talin?”
“We should follow him,” I say softly. “He wants Valyra and will take us to her.”
The lamias strides across the chamber, and though darkness has rushed in again I know what she’s doing. Metal scrapes on stone as she picks up the fallen warrior’s sword. The blackness shivers as she cuts the air with the blade.
“You are better with a sword,” she says, holding out the hilt for me to take. It’s heavy and ill-balanced compared to my green-glass sword, but I run my fingers along its curving length and am surprised at the keenness of the steel. It may be old, but this blade has been well cared for.
“Why don’t we run?” Bell asks, a faint trembling to her words. She’s held up remarkably well, but I suspect her breaking point is quickly approaching.
“Given that the Prophet walked away from us, he must believe that we could easily be hunted down if we tried to escape. Also, he knows we will want to find and protect Valyra.”
“Then we just follow him to where the other Shriven are waiting?” Deliah asks, sounding honestly curious.
“He could have set his pet demons on us as soon as he opened our cell door,” I say. “For whatever reason, he doesn’t want us dead.” And I want to know why.
“Then let us hurry,” Deliah says, moving towards the passage where the Prophet and his Shriven have vanished. “I hate this place.”
Bones again. Whatever the prison chamber we’ve come from was once designed for, it is unique in these catacombs, as soon we are again treading upon a carpet of crushed bones. When I drift closer to the walls and reach out into the seamless black my fingers slide along desiccated skeletons, some of which are so ancient they crumble at the slightest touch. This place must have served as the city’s Necropolis for many, many generations – the irony of it being repurposed as the last bastion for the living is not lost on me.
We would have become hopelessly lost in this darkened maze of tunnels if one of the Shriven had not returned. The slitted eyes of the snake-demon hold an unsettling blue luminescence, and when we turn a corner and see these sparks floating in the black I nearly lunge forward swinging my sword. It may be my imagination, but the hissing sound the Shriven makes when it sees my reaction is almost like a chuckle. When it gets too far ahead it waits, turning back to regard us with cold indifference until we come to within a dozen paces or so, and then it continues.
The passageway we’re traversing suddenly opens up into the huge hall where we were brought before the Sword of Salvation. The entrance we’ve come through is thirty span or so above the floor, and a narrow stair leads down to where the Azure tribe once gathered around the great firepit.
“Oh,” Bell murmurs in revulsion, turning away from the terrible sight before us. A massacre has occurred – ash-smeared men and women and children lie in bloody tangles, torn apart by rending claws. Shriven move among the dead, searching for survivors – horror swells in me as one of the hulking Scythes, its snout pushing through a mound of corpses, suddenly shrieks in triumph and stabs down with its bony arm. A woman’s ragged scream brings the attention of all the demons as the Scythe lifts its prize from among the dead. The poor woman scrabbles at the length of bone impaling her just above her collarbone, then shudders and goes limp as the Scythe slides his other hook through her stomach. The Shriven pulls its arms in opposite directions, and the woman is torn asunder in a shower of blood and viscera. Around the great chamber the other Scythes raise their gore-spattered hooks and join together in a terrible ululation.
“Where is the sorceress?” Deliah asks softly.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, searching for any survivors among this horror. A figure sits in the bone throne atop the tiered dais, and for a moment I think the Sword of Salvation has somehow been ignored . . . but then I realize that this slumped body is missing its head.
“There!” Bell says, pointing across the chamber towards the sarcophagi lining the far wall. Among those ancient stone coffins a few more human-sized shapes are standing. Even from this distance I recognize the stoutness of the Prophet, and before him cowers a slim form . . . the glow from the firepit has dampened, but there’s still enough light to recognize Valyra’s bright red hair. A trio of cowled shapes loom beside the Prophet, their faces lost in hoods and their hands thrust into long dagged sleeves. A coldness steals over me as I stare at these shrouded figures – those must be Voices, and their presence means that we have little chance of escape.
Ezekal spots us from afar and beckons for us to approach. Valyra does not turn her head to see where the Prophet is gesturing. She looks broken or lost, her tangled hair veiling her face. The snake-Shriven that guided us here is flowing down the stairs, its obligations apparently fulfilled.
“He’s seen us,” I say to my companions.<
br />
“Then let us not keep him waiting,” Deliah replies, starting to descend the steps. Exhaling deeply, I follow.
When we reach the chamber’s floor, I’m expecting we will draw the attention of the Shriven stalking through the scattered corpses, but they ignore us as if we aren’t even here. A Scythe with a ragged scar where one of its eyes should be is only a few dozen paces away, prodding a dead child with its hooks. It raises its head and I lock gazes with its lone slitted yellow eye, but there doesn’t seem to be any recognition that we are enemies. After a moment it resumes its investigations of the child.
Willing my legs to move, I start to pick my way through the corpses of the Azures. Ezekal watches us approach with his hands clasped over his belly and a broad smile. Valyra is on her knees, her face tilted up to watch the Prophet and her hands balled into fists at her side. When I get close enough that I can see her face I find that she’s trembling all over, as if straining against invisible bonds. A trickle of blood is coming from her nose.
“My boy!” Ezekal says warmly. He steps forward, and before I can react he clasps me in a fierce embrace. This is just about the last thing I was expecting, and I go rigid, too surprised to resist. After a long moment he pulls back, his calloused hands on my shoulders.
“Alesk,” he says, his tarnished silver eyes studying me intently, “it’s so good to see you again. I have to admit that I thought you were lost – but I should never have doubted you, my boy.” He gives my shoulders an affectionate squeeze, then turns his gaze to Deliah and Bell. I can only imagine that they are even more surprised than I am.
“And greetings to your lovely companions.” Ezekal sweeps past me, reaching out for Deliah as he bends forward in what I assume is an attempt to brush his lips against her fingers. The lamias jerks her hand back, out of his reach, revulsion twisting her beautiful face.
The Prophet straightens, as if this rejection does not matter at all. “A lamias. Alesk, it seems your quality is finally being rewarded.” He turns to face Bell, who is staring at Ezekal as if he were a venomous snake. “And who is this pale flower? Someone who has spent her life indoors, I would think. A scholar? Or a priestess, perhaps?”
