Chapter 39 Emory #2
Through the fog of pain, Emory tried to make sense of their surroundings. They were indeed in a large, dark, damp cell with five other people. Prisoners, she realized, bare-headed, hard-eyed, sallow-faced men clothed in ill-fitting breeches and threadbare shirts.
Without thinking, Emory healed both the wound on her head and the gashes on her palms. The darkness that had been lingering at the edges of her consciousness pressed in fully then, her ears assaulted by slithering whispers and her vision swarming with bloodied lunar flowers looking to choke her—
“It’s you.”
The utter awe in Aspen’s voice, the bright note of hope that rang through it, pierced through Emory’s darkness, enough for her to realize who the witch had spoken to.
At the other end of the cell, sitting straight-backed and confident despite the death that awaited him, was a young man with molten eyes, his naked torso corded with muscles.
There was a band of dark metal around his neck, like a fetter, which none of the other prisoners had.
His draconic wings were nowhere in sight, but Emory knew who he was nonetheless, because the spiral symbol on his chest atop where his heart was could mean only one thing.
Tol.
Aspen’s face was full of wonder as she took him in, this person she had come to know through his own eyes and had probably never truly seen unless through a reflection.
“Who are you?” Tol didn’t seem to recognize Aspen at all—and why would he, when she’d only ever been this presence in his head that he couldn’t even feel?
Aspen’s shoulders sagged, her expression dimming as she must have come to the same realization. When she spoke again, she became the High Matriarch’s daughter once more, cold and aloof. “Apologies. My name is Aspen, and this is Romie and Emory. We came to free you.”
One of the older prisoners snickered at her. “What a piss-poor job of that you did.”
The rest of the prisoners laughed darkly. But there was a spark of understanding in Tol’s eyes as they landed on Romie. “You were in my dreams.”
“Told you we were coming.” Romie gave an apologetic shrug. “Unfortunately, we ran into some unexpected trouble. Did you know they have a dragon chained up out there?”
A muscle feathered in Tol’s jaw. “That dragon is the reason I’m in here.”
“Because you broke your oath to it?”
“That oath is a farce,” Tol spat. “Did you see what they were doing to it? The draconics who have the dragon chained?”
“They were taking its flame.”
A grim nod. “Taking by force what is supposed to be given freely. The Knight Commander, the masters—they lied to the entire Fellowship. They make us swear fealty to the light, tell us we owe our second life to the dragons who have blessed us, the dragons we revere, when the dark truth of it is, those dragons are captured, beaten, tortured to give up their sacred heart-flame. Our alchemized hearts are not earned; they are stolen.” He looked disgusted with himself, like he wanted to tear his own heart out.
“We are made of the worst sort of violence.”
“Don’t despair, lad,” one of the prisoners said with false cheer. “All your misery will end soon enough.”
“Can you not shift into your draconic form to overpower the guards?” Aspen asked.
Tol motioned to the metal band around his throat. “Prevents me from shifting.”
An unpleasant feeling came over Emory at how much it resembled the damper cuffs used back home to nullify Eclipse magic.
Her own magic still throbbed beneath her skin, the darkness clamoring at the edges of her mind.
She dug her nails into her palms, savoring the small hurt, praying for the darkness to stay away.
“There has to be another way out of here,” Romie despaired.
“No one gets out of the Chasm alive, girl,” the same prisoner said gruffly.
He pointed to a scar running down his pale cheek and neck.
“If we survive the eldritch, we’re thrown right back into our cells to await the next fight.
All we can do is pray we make it another day.
Except your friend here. They’ll make an example out of him, to be sure. ”
“Why?” Romie asked. “Because you found out the truth of how draconics are made?”
“Yes.” Tol’s face darkened. “I tried to free the dragon, unable to stand by what the masters were doing to it. And now they see me as a threat to the sanctity of the Fellowship.”
Just then one of the walls started to pull up in a great metallic clamor.
The sunlight that spilled into the cell felt too bright after such darkness.
Outside, someone was turning a lever on the outer wall, lifting the grate to unveil the arena.
The prisoners dragged themselves up to their feet, the more seasoned of them holding themselves at the ready, almost as if they looked forward to the fight.
Tol winced as he stood, favoring his right leg as though his left were injured. He wobbled slightly, and Aspen was instantly at his side, lending a solid hand.
“Your leg—will you be all right to fight?” Aspen whispered.
They exchanged a weighted, knowing glance.
“I’ll be fine,” Tol answered at last, composing his features into that of a fearless warrior. “The damp just exacerbates it, is all.”
He took a few steps forward, each one steadier than the last, and came to stand next to his fellow prisoners. It was only then that Emory noticed the skin at his ankle, which peeked out from under his pant leg, was not skin at all, but gold. A prosthetic.
As the grate finally came to a metallic stop, Emory saw that a similar door had opened on the opposite side of the fighting pit. The inside of that cell was dark, and she could only imagine what manner of horrible beast would emerge from it.
Fear wired through her as draconic knights in gilded armor came into their cell and roughly pushed the prisoners out into the fighting pit—including Emory, Romie, Aspen, and Tol.
Romie fought against the guard who was pushing her. “You can’t do this to us. We didn’t do anything!”
Her pleas went ignored. There was a moment of confusion in the crowd as they made sense of these three girls in plain clothing standing amid the prisoners. But then the crowd exploded in shouts and cheers and eager applause.
They were ready for a spectacle, no matter what.
Emory tried in vain to find the rest of her friends in the crowd. At her side, Romie was swearing under her breath, while Aspen hovered near Tol, as if he were the sun toward which she gravitated, ready to catch him should he fall.
The ground beneath their feet shook. A low, terrifying grumbling came from the other side of the pit. Something moved in the darkness within that open cell, making the ground shake again and the crowd go wild with anticipation. Two yellow eyes gleamed in the dark.
And then the creature stepped into the arena.
If Emory had thought the corvus serpentes was monstrous, it was nothing compared to this one.
It looked like a giant bear, with thick gray fur that spiked to wicked points along its spine. Its feet alone were each roughly the size of a small horse. And on its head were crimson antlers that curved in all directions, each tip ending in a bladelike point.
“An ursus magnus,” Tol breathed, eyes wide.
The creature let out an earth-splitting roar as if in recognition of its name. The grates on both sides of the arena shut with a thudding metallic sound, trapping them in the arena.
“We’re completely screwed, aren’t we?” Romie muttered.
One of the prisoners charged against the ursus magnus, fists raised in defiance, a scream bellowing out of him. The bear pawed at him with a resounding growl, sending him flying toward the other end of the arena, his body slashed and spilling too much blood.
The ursus magnus worked itself into a frenzy then, charging at them.
Tol screamed at them to run, and they barely missed getting mauled by the creature.
Yipping sounds suddenly met their ears as several smaller creatures emerged behind the bear.
They were foxlike in nature, their reddish fur tipped in black flames, embers following in their footsteps.
Their eyes glowed dark like coals as they stalked the prisoners.
Romie screamed as one of them jumped right at her throat.
Emory reacted without thinking, drawing on the only magic that would be quick enough to save her friend. The fox didn’t even have time to cry out in pain before it fell dead at Romie’s feet, eliciting a broken cry from Tol—as if he’d felt the beast’s pain as his own.
Romie’s wide eyes met Emory’s, shock and gratitude and fear warring on her features as the weight of what Emory had done settled.
She had slain the beast. Killed it with Reaper magic.
Blood pounded in Emory’s ears as her breathing came in quick, shallow successions.
She had done that. Had killed a living thing without blinking, had felt its heart in the palm of her hand and silenced it without an ounce of hesitation.
Remorse didn’t come, not as another fox pounced toward her, and again she reached for the Reaper magic that could end all of this right now—
“No!” Tol shouted, coming between Emory and the fox.
Heart jumping to her throat, she pulled the death magic back just in time, letting it fizzle out inside her. The beast’s teeth closed on Tol’s forearm, black flames blaring around its maw. Tol grunted in pain and tried to shake it off, finally managing to send it scurrying away with a yelp.
“Why did you do that?” Emory snapped. “I had it!”
Tol whirled on her, face full of anger. “The eldritch aren’t our enemy.”
“They’re trying to kill us!” Around them, the other prisoners were fighting for their lives against the beasts, two of them already dead. With a cry of triumph, one of the prisoners managed to hurt a fox, which fell to the ground, its leg broken.
Tol stumbled and grabbed hold of his own leg, as if the pain were mirrored in him. “There has to be another way to do this,” he lamented.