“Probably the same as the odds of Melité pissing me off,” Vaughn says.
The half-siren’s gills flare as she huffs.
The pit of dread in my stomach spreads outward, eroding throughout my abdomen and chest cavity as we begin to move again, slower this time, our steps ginger on the flagstones. There is no easy way to avoid setting them off, but after a few near misses we learn to do it in a more controlled manner—sliding a toe out across the stone, applying pressure while your body remains safely out of range.
Before we’ve traversed the length of the passage, Vaughn has narrowly ducked a volley of arrows headed straight for his skull. Alaric dodges a swinging bar of spikes that drops from the ceiling by the skin of his teeth. Even Melité has to spring out of the way when a faulty floor panel plummets into a bottomless pit.
“Your stepbrother certainly has a flair for creativity,” I mutter, leaping over the void into Soren’s waiting arms. “A shame he didn’t channel it into something a bit less evil.”
Our progress is infuriatingly slow, grating on all our nerves. Every time we reach a corner, I brace myself for enemies lurking out of sight. But the prison seems almost abandoned as we move deeper and deeper, following set after set of damp steps into the earth. Only the occasional distant screech from the dungeons below disrupts the silence.
The air grows even staler as we near them. Musty and moldering in my lungs. Yet there is another scent here, too—one that grows stronger with each step until it waters the eyes and burns the throat.
The distinct, coppery tinge of blood.
We soon locate the source, stepping into a room I can only describe as a torture chamber. Tools line the walls, on racks and shelves and stands. Some I recognize from my Life Guild days. There are saws for limb amputation, tourniquets to control bleeding. Needles for stitching. And blades of every variety. Serrated, curved, pointed, double-edged. Some shine, freshly polished. Others are caked in gore.
Monster parts are littered about like decor. Hacked-off arachnidae legs rot in puddles of black ichor; cleaved cyntroedi mandibles rest beside harvested vials of green venom. An octopaeron eye floats in a tremendous glass jar. I can only imagine what depraved uses Efnysien finds for them.
At the center of the chamber sit three operating tables, similar in design to what a surgeon might employ. In a glance, it’s clear these are not used for any sort of healing. They are not crafted of wood but massive slabs of granite, cleverly gouged along the edges to contain the blood before it spills. Beveled trenches at the foot of each table funnel into a vat in the middle of the floor.
A vat full to the brim with dark, red fluid.
Soren stills at the sight. “I guess that explains how he managed to confound the portals. There’s enough there for a hundred journeys.”
“Arwen.” Alaric’s voice breaks on his wife’s name. His eyes bore into the center table, which appears to have been used most recently, if the smears of vibrant crimson are any indication. “Do you think—”
“This is far more than a few days’ worth.” Vaughn claps his brother-in-law on the back. “Come. Let’s keep moving. We must be getting close. The screams are getting louder.”
As if on cue, a muffled wail of agony echoes through thethick stone walls. It does indeed sound closer than those that came before.
We move on, leaving the gruesome chamber behind. I keep one hand on the coiled whip at my waist, comforted by its golden weight in my hand even if my maegic is too muted down here for it to be of any use to me. I find it strange that no one is around and, from the edgy energy emanating from him, I know Soren feels the same.
Where are the guards?
Where are the wardens of this prison?
We see none. Not in the corridors, not on the stairways, not even posted at the thick door to the cellblocks.
Vaughn makes quick work of ripping it off its hinges. He looks at Soren as he sets the wood panel aside. “Does this feel…”
“Too easy,” Soren finishes, teeth grinding together. “Definitely.”
“Perhaps Efnysien is so cocky, he thinks this prison cannot be infiltrated,” Alaric says, but his voice sounds unsure. “Between the guard towers above and the booby traps within, he must figure no one would be crazy enough to try.”
“Mmm,” Melité hums noncommittally.
Harpina says nothing, but I catch her making the sigil for protection from the Goddess of Fate out of the corner of my eye.
Soren looks at me.“Stay close, skylark. I do not like this.”
“Really? I’m having a splendid time.”
The ghost of a smile twitches at his lips.“How are your nerves?”
“Shot to all hell,”I answer honestly. I expel a thin breath, wishing the confinement was not affecting me so harshly.
“We’ll be out of here soon,”he promises.“Back in Hylios. Back in the sunlight. Think of that, not this place.”