Chapter 6 #2
Fighting against the silver shackles still restraining his wrists and ankles, Ruairí was sure he heard chanting. Not the rhythmic intonation of many voices as he had experienced centuries before, but of just two.
The first, the lowest voice of the pair, was gravelly.
Its texture was rough like coarse sand stuck in the shaft of his boot, abrading his skin with every movement- only this was all over his body, eating its way into his soul through his ears.
The man, for he was sure it was a man, perpetually strained to speak and even more so when he was chanting.
The pitch possessed a husky, raspy quality, proving to the Guardsman that the evil Wizard’s throat and vocal cords were constantly irritated as a byproduct of the nasty Herbology he practiced.
The other voice, the higher, more nasally, and infinitely more irritating, was clear, but inundated with hate, loathing, and such copious amounts of Black Magic that it resonated and echoed from the depths of her black heart.
It was everywhere and nowhere and slithered like a great snake bringing poison to the Guardsman’s heart.
Whether it was a hallucination or reality or a combination of both, Ruairí was sure both of those voices had been there on the night he and the others of his Force were bewitched and kidnapped.
It was as clear as the nose he thought was still on his face, and he opened his mouth to issue that accusation when a wave of ghastly and unholy Mysticism flooded over his lips and into his nose.
Weaving its way into the depths of his body, the Black Magic was on a mission; it was searching for something. It was…
A shrill accusation cut through the chanting like a buzz saw through a tree trunk. “I told you it could not be gotten this way, you stupid, worthless, waste of skin and bones.”
Were there more than two? There had to be. The woman was talking, but he still heard multiple voices. How had he missed…?
Then he felt it, more of the thick, suffocating smoke of the Mandrake, and… Yes, there was no doubt about it. He was not imagining it. There was liquid dripping from over him. Drop by diabolical drop, it fell onto his chest, popped, sizzled, and burned as if he’d been touched by a lit match.
Then it stopped. He literally exhaled. But it was all for naught. The drip-drip-pop-sizzle followed by the stench of burning flesh moved to his forehead. They were clouding his perception, his mind, his very consciousness.
Using every speck of Magic he could muster and some he was sure he pulled out of thin air, Ruairí focused on his surroundings while fighting the horrid effects of the Herbal Magics. Listening with all that he was, he counted, “One, two.”
Two heartbeats, no more. His captors were playing a game.
They wanted him to think there were many.
They were scared of what he might do if given even the slightest advantage.
Clenching his fists, Ruairí was ready to fight even as he felt what was left of his right mind floating away on the black fog of evil herbology.
Slowly inhaling through his nose, careful not to let his captors know he remained conscious, the Guardsman relaxed his hands just as a whirring sound floated overhead and a heavy disc landed with a thud in the center of his chest. It took less than a second for the skin beneath the amulet to start to burn, less time for it to sizzle, and even less for his captors to stop chanting and cackle in unison, “That will hold him.”
Blocking out the pain, refusing to give in to it and pass out, Ruairí focused on the voices of his jailers and the ambient sounds all around.
The stomping footsteps grew softer as the man moved away.
Then the creak of rusted metal had birds squawking and flapping their wings, and then a loud bang silenced everything, and what he recognized as an engine started.
The ground shook, and petrol fumes replaced the stench of Black Magic and evil Herbology. Then the female screeched, “Stop! Stop you fucking idiot! Stop the fucking truck!”
More metal squeaking and slamming, followed by screaming voices and the thwap of someone being slapped, was the prelude to the female snarling, “I’ll do it myself! I’ll spell him to the cave since you’re too…”
“NO!” The man adamantly objected. “You. Will. Not. This fucking, Lucifer-forsaken mountain is alive with Shifters. We can’t fight them all. Grandmother’s books said…”
Another whack, thwack, smack, and the male was howling in pain as the female raged, “I don’t give a flying fuck what that old hag’s book said. I am Hettie V. Zanderghast, and I get what I want!”
No sooner did she shriek the words than did a wave of Black Magic so strong and so horrific land on Ruairí like a ton of bricks.
Struggling to breathe, fighting against the tsunami of ebony smoke that was trying to drag him under, the last thing he heard before he could no longer remain conscious was, “And I don’t give a shit how many Shifters are on my mountain.
I only need the heart of that fucking Bobcat Queen! ”