8. Chapter 8 #2
Only to find that his eyes happen to be everywhere but on me. Fucking bastard can’t even face the reality of what he’s done. I hope he gets hit by lightning.
“If I ever see you again, I’m going to ram your own dagger through your spleen!” I say to him. “And then I’m going to cut off your favorite appendage.”
“I look forward to it,” Augustine says, his eyes flickering up to meet mine, a small smile forming on his lips. I’m about to curse out his entire family tree next, but then the gates close shut, effectively sealing him from my vision.
“Fuck!”
The guards exchange a silent look of amusement.
“What are you fucking looking at?” I shout at them.
One of them grunts. Another looks like he wants to laugh, but the only sound that escapes his throat is a wet squelch. In the nursery rhymes, the Undead Guards all lacked organs, which is really lining up with their behavior right now, given how they can’t laugh if they don’t have lungs.
Fuck.
I never should’ve given Augustine his dagger back.
I could’ve used it to get myself out of this mess.
But now, all I can do is recall the memories of my childhood and dissociate from the fact that I’m being carried away against my will, right toward the Castle of the Four Gods, which shimmers like a diamond on the mountain.
According to my cartography instructor, after the gods entered the realm, they soaked everything in silver and myrrh, erecting a palace so majestic that the Heavens themselves became vengeful and struck it with lightning.
The shockwave created a bronze clocktower that now stands erect at the center, its little dials rumored to tick backward instead of forward.
I’ve always wanted to witness its splendor in real life, but preferably not while being held hostage.
A guard grunts in pain as I ram my elbow into his liver.
Or at least, I think that’s his liver, although I’m not entirely sure he even has a liver either.
I imagine that his organs are a jumbled-up pile of spaghetti stuffed beneath his ribcage, considering how he was plucked from the ground like root-rot and turned into a soldier with dark magic.
Yum.
After making little progress with my escape plan, I heave a violent sigh of frustration and throw my head back.
I notice how the castle itself is split into four distinct sections, the west wing of which is dedicated to the queen, who is otherwise known as the Goddess of Love.
Her piece of the castle is being held up by twisting ivory columns and grand walls of pink tourmaline, all of which lead into a little courtyard littered with fallen rose petals and dried-up lavender sprigs.
Effigies of the goddess’s beauty rise up like marble fountains every twenty or so feet, spouting water into a shallow reflection pool shaped like two women kissing.
The scene is stunning from afar, but I can feel its emanating chill creeping into my bones from here.
What a splendid place to die, really.
More heavy footsteps echo in my ears as the guards adjust their grips on my flailing limbs.
I suppose that if I’m being dragged to my doom, I may as well enjoy the view.
Which is how I find myself gawking at the south wing of the castle that’s dedicated to the God of Wisdom.
A god who’s rumored to spend most of his days confined to the Hall of Chronicles, ensuring that his designated scribes are depicting history to his liking.
Within those halls, he is protected by walls that were built to gatekeep the realm’s secrets, its libraries.
The north and east wings aren’t visible due to the direction that I’m facing, but I imagine that the God of War and the God of Dreams have courtyards even more foreboding than their siblings.
Admittedly, I become so mesmerized over all the sightseeing that I nearly miss the carriage approaching.
It’s a carved-out box of polished birch with glass windows decorated in heaps of filigree.
Along with that, it’s being pulled by stallions that are so pretty, I’m growing increasingly convinced they hatched from marble casings.
Against my vocalized disagreement, I’m forced inside the cabin headfirst by the gloved hands of the guards, where I curse the day that Augustine was born.
Traitorous bastard.
Another guard crawls into the cabin after me, and I press my back against the bench and huff out a breath.
“Oh no, I don’t think so buddy. This seat is taken.
Seriously, get out. Now.” I stick my leg out to keep him from inching too close.
Thankfully, this carriage is large enough for a wide berth of bench to exist between us, without him brushing up against me.
“I’m serious. Get out now, or I’ll kick you in the groin.
Wait. Would that even hurt, or do you not have any balls?
” I pause to consider this and then shake my head in indecisiveness. “I’m guessing not?”
The guard closes the carriage door shut behind him. Before I can protest further, however, the carriage rolls forward, leaving me to watch the rest of the soldiers turn into specks of dust along the horizon through the window. Good riddance.
“Okay, how about I count to three,” I offer with a fake smile. “And if you’re not out of this carriage by then, I’m going to start flailing my legs around like a banshee. I also should have you know that I bite. One… two…”
The guard stares at me in silence.
“THREE.”
I throw my body over his in an attempt to kick the carriage door open, but it doesn’t budge.
I even try to maneuver the lock with the tip of my boot, but it feels like it's damn near glued shut.
The guard grabs me by the arms and flings me back into my seat, but not before I lodge a kick at his groin in retribution.
He barrels over and coughs. Ha. Sweet victory.
A weak spot in his armor, revealing he does have balls after all. At least… I think.
The carriage trundles over a hilly glade as I stumble back into my seat, causing me to bump my head on the ceiling, which must knock some sense into me.
Because as my victory smile fades, I remember that these decorations and frills are a facade to keep me contained.
This carriage is a moving prison cell, and I am its inmate.