Page 88 of Jailer to the Death God
Alarm flares through my mind—too late—as figures surge from the darkness around me. Excruciating pain streaks through my body as blades bite into my shoulders, my back, my arms—one pierces my chest, slips between two of my ribs, and spears the thick, pumping muscle of my heart. A sword slashes across my face, cleaving it, cracking my jaw and teeth. A keen edge whips across my throat, and my blood spurts out, a hot fountain in the dark. I choke on the blood, my skull so full of pain I can’t think, can’t focus on magic, on defense.
I crash to the floor, and the figures continue to stab me. Pieces of my flesh and fingers have been hacked entirely away.
Through every wound, a gnawing cold spreads, an acidic burn dissolving into my veins.
“Do you think that’s enough?” someone whispers.
“If the wounds don’t get him, the poison will,” another hoarse voice responds. “Healers can’t purge poison.”
“Someone slashed my arm,” complains a third.
“What do you expect? It’s dark,” snaps the hoarse voice. “There’s bound to be accidents. Chop off his hand, one of you. We’ll bring it along as proof and get our pay.”
Someone grips my wrist, sets a cold edge to my skin, and begins sawing into my flesh.
But those few moments were enough for me to recover from the shock and the avalanche of pain. I’m already healing, already destroying the poison racing through my body.
Jaw clenched, I let myself explode.
Green light ignites in the hallway, flashing across the startled faces of my attackers. They’re flecked with my blood, holding weapons that drip gore. The light holds, and in its unearthly green glow I rise, cracking my neck from side to side, wrenching my broken jaw back into place. My wounds seal, my fingers reform, and my stuttering heart renews its steady pumping.
“Not fucking possible,” breathes one of the attackers.
My double set of rams’ horns curls from my hair. I let my fangs and claws glide out. Shadows writhe from my body like serpents, poised to strike.
The men whirl and run.
It’s all too easy to send my shadows after them, to drag the men back to me through the pool of my blood. They’re screaming, pleading. I am deaf to it all.
One of them I turn into a cockroach. His tiny legs become swamped in the blood, and I crush him under my heel. Another I transform into a cat, while a third becomes a small gray mouse. With my shadows, I pry open the cat’s mouth and stuff the mouse down its throat.
Three men remain, writhing in the grip of my shadows. I urge a poisonous, icy despair into their bodies until they are moaning, weeping, and begging for death.
I advance and grip one of them by the throat. “Who hired you to kill me?”
“Lord—Lord Venniroth,” he wheezes. “He told us to cut you up and poison you, too. Healers can’t counteract poison. You shouldn’t be alive. What are you?”
“I am the fucking god of death,” I snarl. “And when you reach Annwn, you’ll wish you had refused this particular job.”
“Mercy,” chokes the man. “My family is starving.”
For a moment I hesitate. “Other families are starving, too. Yet they are not so foolish as to murder the one who is trying to save the kingdom.”
My fingers clench and twist until I hear a snap, and the man’s head lolls aside.
I transform the remaining men into worms and leave them squirming on the floor of the hallway. Dressed in the fluttering tatters of my clothing, painted in my own blood, I stride back the way I came.
The servant who lured me down here escaped. No matter—if I ever see him again, I will age him by twenty or thirty years. That should teach him not to be complicit in murder.
When I return to the Queen’s suite, the guards and Tilda are aghast at my appearance. I give them strict orders not to wake the Queen, but to double the guard outside her room for the rest of the night. Quietly I wash and dress in fresh clothes. Then I meet Tilda in the hallway and hand her my ruined garments for disposal.
She is the one who brought the man here and woke me. Before I let her leave, I must be sure she has no treasonous intent.
I press my hand against the brown skin of her forehead, just beneath her white curls.
She trembles, but stays still.
In her soul I read no harm intended toward me or the Queen. Tilda knew nothing of the assassination.
