Chapter 53
Zarek
BEST IF HE KILLS ME
That elven asshole could have unlocked me.
I grit my teeth against the bite of pain in my wrists as I tug at the manacles pinning me to this stupid chair.
Weirdly, that’s the only part of my body that hurts.
I don’t know if I’m in shock after whatever just happened to me, if I was knocked unconscious long enough for my body to heal, or if there’s something stranger at work here.
Given my night so far, I think it’s safe to assume it’s something stranger.
“Fuck,” I grunt.
The chair isn’t moving, no matter how frantically I throw my weight against it. Panting, I let my head collapse on my chest and glare at the motionless corpse of Fyrris. The key to these manacles is somewhere in those blood-stained robes.
It’s just a matter of getting there. Preferably before the remaining torches burn out.
I sigh, then grit my teeth against the burn of the manacles. I managed to attack Syvan from a chair, damn it. I can do this. I press my feet against the floor, ready to rock forward.
If only that arrogant piece of shit had unlocked me. Of course, what did I expect from the elves? The stories describe them as twisted creatures who use their magic for trickery, violence, and war.
Still. After I shared everything I could about King Malrik and the inner machinations of Vsenrog, I thought the strange, tall elf would at least set me free.
Nope. Lord Varitan Fenfyr, if that’s actually his name, just nodded at me, like I’d given him the time of day or directions to the river, and then he took the torch from behind me, turned, and walked away.
“Hey!” I called. “How about letting me go?”
Varitan stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled. In the shifting light from the torch, he didn’t look anything like a human man.
Then he left. I opened my mouth to scream after him, but I was too damn stunned to think of anything sufficiently insulting.
By the time I yelled that he was a waste of blood and bones, not worth the sunshine it took to grow the food to sustain his worthless body, he was probably well out of earshot.
That didn’t stop me from continuing to insult him.
“Eat shit,” I mutter under my breath as I glare at the darkness that swallowed Varitan. “Your pecker’s as useless as tits on a billy goat.”
I strain against the stone floor, pushing my muscles until they scream. The chair finally moves, then settles. I am now one hair’s breadth closer to Fyrris’s dead body. I pant as sweat stings my eyes.
“If I had to choose between saving your life or eating horse shit,” I mutter at the long-gone elf as I rock the chair forward again. “Horse shit that’s on fire—”
Something echoes down the passageway. I shut up. The sound comes again, the steady drum of boots on stone. I hold my breath, listening. Just one set of boots, I think. Moving quickly, like they know where they’re going.
Maybe Varitan had a change of heart?
Maybe he’s decided it would be best if he killed me.
I stare at the dark tunnel that leads out of here.
The rough outline is just beginning to glow with the distant flicker of torchlight.
The footsteps grow louder. They’re strong, confident, and heavy.
That’s a change from Varitan, who walked lightly, as if he were trying to blend into the shadows. No, this sounds more like—
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath as the man emerges from the tunnel.
Prince Syvan of Vsenrog. Fantastic.
He pauses once he enters the room, glancing at the walls and the few sickly torches that still sputter against the subterranean gloom.
And then his eyes settle on me. He grins.
His teeth seem very white in the torchlight, that perfect prince’s smile.
He walks toward me slowly, his footsteps loud and heavy.
Strange echoes bounce off the walls, making it sound like a ghost followed him down the tunnel.
“The snake of Vsenrog,” Syvan sneers as he approaches me slowly, like he has all the time in the world.
Cold fear courses through my veins. Godsdamnit, I wish it had been Varitan. Maybe I should have asked the elf for a clean death, something like what he did to Fyrris.
Syvan holds a torch in one hand and a blade in the other. He turns the blade as he walks, making it catch the torchlight and throw it back on the stones. It’s a move that’s probably meant to intimidate me.
Sadly, it’s working.
I tear my eyes off Syvan and glance at the entrance to the cave, frantically, like a dying man might stare at the horizon, wondering when the gods will appear to grant his fervent last requests. But there’s nothing in that black hole. No gods, no—
Wait. The entrance to the tunnel is still outlined in light.
Perhaps Syvan left a torch burning in the passageway. I narrow my eyes.
And the light in the tunnel goes out. I blink, then turn back to Syvan. The prince places his torch on one of the stakes next to Fyrris’s table, then runs his finger delicately across his blade, like he’s testing the edge.
“You know,” Syvan says, as he bends close enough for me to smell his expensive perfume, “I’m delighted you’re still alive, little snake. Because that means I get to kill you.”
“Charming,” I mutter. “You’re so eloquent, son of the king. No wonder you were sent all the way to the Devil’s Arse.”
I see the hit coming, but it’s not like I can avoid it. Syvan’s hand meets my face, and my world explodes in bright, blinding agony. My head hits the back of the chair; my lip splits open again, spilling blood across my teeth.
“You insolent little shit,” Syvan spits. “I’m going to take great pleasure in this, you know. I’m going to make it last a very long time.”
A pebble falls on the far side of the room. The sound is unmistakable. Syvan tilts his head toward the tunnel.
“That would be a first,” I snap.
Syvan turns back toward me. Whatever made the noise is forgotten, for the moment.
“No one’s ever accused you of lasting a long time,” I say.
Syvan scowls, but then, horrifyingly, his grimace turns into a smile. A scraping hiss rises behind him, the sound of someone trying to move silently over rough ground. Syvan doesn’t seem to notice.
“That gives me a brilliant idea,” Syvan announces as he twists his knife. “You’re so fond of visiting the whores at the Golden Rose. I think I’ll begin with your balls.”
There’s a whisper of breath from the darkness behind Syvan. I bark a laugh to cover it.
“That’s fitting,” I snap. “All of your brilliant ideas come from someone else, don’t they?”
“Oh, you are a slimy one,” Syvan replies. His smile is gone, replaced by a feral glint in his eyes. “Trying to piss me off so I’ll end it quickly? That’s not going to work, you godsdamned serpent.”
He leans close to me. Torchlight winks off the golden thread in his shirt and cloak. Even here, in this horrible pit, he looks like a prince.
His blade closes the distance between us, then comes to rest on my chin. It’s cold; I suppress the urge to shiver. His eyes meet mine.
“There’s no slithering out of this,” Syvan drawls.
His knife traces a path down my neck. It’s so sharp I don’t realize I’ve been cut until he pulls the blade back, its tip glistening with my blood.
“That’s one,” Syvan says. “How many marks do you think I can make, snake, before you finally die?”