Meath could not help but get lost in the splendor and ease of the Shaman's Gift. He was so fluent and motionless, it was almost impossible to tell when, or if, the Shaman was summoning his Gift. The pure magnitude of his powers was baffling. Meath had to wonder just how powerful the Shaman really was, for his powers had to outmatch that of Ursa's.
The Wizard slumped weakly in his earthly chair - as if on cue the vines returned and slithered tightly around his neck, holding him in place. His hands shot up to grip the choking vines but they were already entangled and going nowhere. He kicked and thrashed futilely. His air was being cut off and his face began turning purple.
Kinor lifted the final symbol up and pressed it hard into the Wizard's forehead. The Wizard's eyes rolled back into his head and he began to thrash and spasm artificially. Several of his restraints snapped from the unnatural force he seemed to now possess. His screams were muffled at first by the melted scab where his lips had once been. Soon the wails broke free, tearing through their cauterized cage with deafening tones from an unholy source.
Finally, the Wizard's body collapsed and went limp. The Shaman slashed the Wizard's throat and filled his wooden goblet again with blood, and drank it hastily. He dropped the cup to the floor, his face and body convulsing uncontrollably. His muscles pulsed and contorted freakishly on his skinny frame. The veins in his arms twisted and bulged, as if full of maggots and worms trying to break free.
The Shaman dropped to his knees in what appeared to be agony. The temperature in the hut dropped substantially, so each exhaled breath was fully visible in plumes. The flames of the fire died down and wavered out, leaving the hut in a gloom narrowed dark.
Meath's eyes widened tremendously - the dead Wizard's body went rigid and the muscles snapped taunt. His mouth jolted open so wide the jawbones cracked, leaving his maw gaping. An eerie, disturbing howl escaped, sending a shiver up Meath's spine.
Kinor crawled nearer to the dead Wizard - he was breathing hard, labored exhalations, as he waited eagerly. The howl stopped and a wraithlike vapor hesitantly ascended from the body. It pulsed and radiated a raw aura of power, causing the large warrior to stumble back out of the hut in retreat.
Meath was so caught up in the moment; he had to remind himself to breathe. The aura fought bitterly as it descended down toward the waiting Shaman. Unholy light flashed in a fury and the still air of the hut pulsated in defiance at the aberrant act that was occurring. Slowly the Shaman absorbed the translucent essence, until there was nothing left.
Kinor collapsed to the ground in exhaustion, his breathing so shallow and weak, his chest did not rise. Meath wondered if the event that he had just witnessed had killed the Shaman - he could only hope.
Much time passed and still the Shaman did not move, and the large warrior who had run off reentered the room apprehensively. Seeing the Shaman face down on the ground seemed to ease the warrior's mind. He came in, collected the dead, naked Wizard, and carried him out.
Meath was sure the Shaman was dead, and had to wonder what was going to happen to him now. But a slight movement of dust under the Shaman's lips alerted Meath. He was not dead. Slowly his breathing strengthened and his chest began to rise and fall noticeably.
Meath watched the Shaman slowly drag himself up onto the earthy chair he had summoned during the murder of the old Wizard. He could barely keep himself upright. Meath wondered if he even knew where he was.
Meath clenched his fists again to keep the feeling in them. He could not stand the waiting any longer and knew if there was any hope of him getting out alive, he had to try again. He pulled himself up and grabbed a few inches above where the rope was tied to his hands. His arms and shoulders bugled in strain and exhaustion. The beam that held him creaked with the new movement. Once the weight was off, he could feel the rope loosen slightly around his wrists. He moved his hand up another inch and tried to loosen the knots that bound him, but it was too late. Fatigue overwhelmed him as sharp stabs of pain besieged his shoulders and back, as the muscles knotted and spasmed. His grip loosened and he fell. The rope pulled taunt, digging into his flesh as his wrists took the brunt of the strain. He cried out in pain, feeling the fresh, warm blood stream down his arms.
"Still trying?" the Shaman asked, sarcasm thick in his weak voice. "Your Gift is mine - your life is already over."
"You son of a bitch!" Meath spat.
"She was worse than that," the Shaman chuckled.
Meath concentrated his Gift again on the leather ropes that bound him. Hoping, praying for some miracle. Again, agonizing pain spiked through his entire body like wildfire. Meath lapsed into semi-conciousness.
"The young are so foolish." Kinor took a long hard swallow from a water sack.
Meath's eyes refocused as he regained most of his senses. He gritted his teeth and unleashed his Gift again. His body convulsed violently from the inner assault. Vomit and blood trickled out his mouth and onto the dirt floor.
"What is the matter with you?" the Shaman asked, his attention turning to Meath, who was summoning his Gift again and again. "How dare you try to rob me of your powers!" He jumped to his feet, but did not make it more than a few steps before he collapsed from disorientation and weakness. Quickly, he called out in his native tongue and the large warrior came running in and surveyed the scene. "Stop him!"
Meath was about to summon his Gift again when a sudden burst of pain erupted in his midsection, stealing his breath. He wondered if his insides had exploded. He figured his brain would shut down or his heart would stop first. But this would kill him all the same. His victory would be bittersweet….
The smell of something cooking wafted up and making his nose tingle. He could not place the scent … meat? He was sure it had to be exotic. He knew he had smelled it before, but where? He wracked his mind trying to remember, but his head hurt. A constant thumping pulsed through his skull - he was sure his ears would pop and his eyeballs would burst soon. Battle scenes flashed vividly in his mind. Towns and villages slaughtered and destroyed. Left in ruins, smoldering fires, waiting for the scavengers to come and do their job. Smoldering fires? Why did that stand out in his mind? The odor of burning meat assaulted his senses again. Flesh, human flesh was the smell. Yes, he was sure of it now; he had smelled it a dozen times before in battle. But why now, had he fallen in battle? Had the scenes he had so vividly seen been his last moments? A sharp stinging feeling engulfed his right foot and then was accompanied by the burning flesh scent again. It was him! He was burning!
Meath's eyes shot open frantically, and he kicked his right foot hard, hoping to free it from the fire that was consuming it. His foot connected hard with something, but it moved from his force. Slowly his eyes focused - he was in a hut. There were two men in the room with him - a large fierce man standing a dozen paces away looking angry, and a skinny frail man lying confused on the floor. No, not confused, that was not the look... annoyed, yes that was it. He held in his hands a metal pole with a strange symbol attached to it - it was red hot. Then Meath remembered, it all flooded back to him.
"I was hoping you would come to and not miss your own death," Kinor hissed, wiping the blood from his nose.
The large warrior rushed over, helped the Shaman back to his feet, and stayed close in case he stumbled again.
Meath's head pounded - a thousand war drums all going off at once. His vision blurred horribly from the increasing pain shooting through his entire body. Nausea and exhaustion battered him like a club as he fought to keep his head up. He vomited what little he still had left in him and it dripped down his chest and legs to the earth.
Kinor motioned the large warrior to grab the next brand and bring it to him as he tried to keep his balance. The warrior placed the metal brand in the Shaman's ready hand and he stumbled as the weight of it nearly sent him off balance. The warrior walked over to Meath and grabbed his legs tightly in a bear hug, squeezing them so hard Meath thought they would break. The brand pressed hard against the bottom of his left foot. M
eath tried to pull his legs free and fight it, but his body did not respond. A loud hiss and a slight tingling sensation spread up his leg.
The Shaman dropped the brand to the ground, not waiting to waste any unnecessary energy. He stumbled backward and would have fallen had the warrior not been fast to react and catch him in time. The Shaman lowered himself to the ground, in a half-sitting, half-laying position while the next symbol was placed in the fire.
"It will all be over soon," the Shaman coughed out, his voice weak.
Meath just glared down at him bitterly. A small trickle of blood and saliva escaped the corners of his mouth. He tried to summon his Gift once more, but he did not have the strength, or the concentration to do so. He would wait for it - he would stare death in the eyes. He just had to hold on a little longer and then it would be over with. Two more symbols and his fate would be sealed.
Meath grinned to himself looking up through the chimney, it was almost dark outside already. Zehava would be escaping soon with the savage girl, if he had not already. Meath hoped he was already gone and far away. He would be traveling to Dragon's Cove to meet up with the others. Then they would be able to strike back at the false Prince. Nicolette would be able to start her life again. He could feel several tears stream down his swollen cheeks. He would never see her again. The thought tugged hard at his heart. But then, he would not be there to confuse her anymore. It was foolish for them to think they could be together; this was just fate's way of proving it. He just wished he could see her beautiful face one last time and tell her he loved her. He had always loved her, from their very first meeting in her father's garden.…
"Hey!" A voice barked out at him. Meath's eyes opened again to see the Shaman wobbling in front of him, his balance still shaky and weak. "Stay with me, we are almost done."
At first, all Meath could hear was the hissing of blistering hot metal on flesh over his heart, then came that smell again, accompanied by a fierce stinging on his chest. His breathing was shallow and labored - he fought the urge to cry out. He refused to give the Shaman the satisfaction. He was glad Nicolette would not see what was done to him here. It would be too much for her. His death alone would be so much for her to bear after all those she loved had already been killed.
Greed - that was the symbol that scarred his chest now. Only one more symbol to go, Death. It would be all over after that. His body itched and quivered from the inside, as if unseen parasites were moving through him. His nerves all pulsed together. He could not determine if it was pain he was now feeling or not. No, not pain - he knew pain. This was different, some queer sensation that he could not even begin to describe.
*****
Zehava woke with a gasp of agony. He had rolled over in his sleep and several pieces of straw had assaulted his wounds like needles. Slowly he rolled over and pulled the sharp grass out of his oozing wounds. The urge to just roll back over and let weariness overtake him into slumber again played in his mind. His muscles were stiffening and sore. If he were going to be able to escape without being useless, he would have to start moving his body.
Zehava pushed himself up slowly, trying not to break open the fresh scabs. He grabbed his cell bars firmly in both hands; he took deep hard breaths, pulling himself up to standing position. Had his hands not been gripping the bars, his knees would surely have buckled. "Ata boy, Zehava," he whispered to himself.
"You alive, you still alive!" The crazed man screeched aloud, bounding in his cell.
Zehava had forgotten all about the other prisoner and the sudden outburst from him startled Zehava. He fell backwards - his hands grabbed the bars at the last moment, halting his crash, but only for a second. The weight of his body snapped his arms taunt, forcing him to flex his muscles to support the weight. Several of his scabs cracked and tore open - the pain was too much, his grip released and he crashed to the floor. Zehava buried his mouth into his arm to muffle his cries of agony.
"Me sowwie, me sowwie!" the crazed man cried out, still bouncing around his cell. "No mean…hurt…no mean hurt!" He pushed his head tightly against his cell bars, eyeing Zehava benevolently.
Zehava centered his breathing and forced the pain back. He wanted to yell and scream, but it was not the man's fault. "I am ok."
"You…you no…no mad?" the man whimpered, watching Zehava push himself back up.
"I am fine, really," Zehava replied through gritted teeth, resting up against the bars. Many of his wounds were bleeding and oozing now - he used the last of the salve Shania had left for him.
"Good, you are still alive," Shania whispered, unlocking his cell.
Shania's sudden presence startled Zehava. He had not even heard her, or anything, for that matter. She helped him to his feet and walked him out of the cell.
"No escape…no, no, no, no…" the distraught man squealed shrilly, "pain, more pain…"
"Shhh," Shania walked over to his cell and bent to him. He came to her waiting hand like a dog to its master. "You stay silent," she cooed to him, dropping several pieces of cooked meat into his lap. He grabbed the meat and scurried off to the far side of his cage, hoarding it.
"You got my things?" Zehava said, picking up his sword. It seemed a lot heavier than he remembered. The cold wooden handle felt good in his hand - it soon warmed under his palm as he strapped it back to its rightful place on his hip.
"Personal possessions lift spirit," she replied, picking up the large leather backpack she had brought with her. "Man needs weapon to survive."
"Hopefully, we will not need to use them." Zehava looked around but did not see any of Meath's things. "Where is Meath?" he asked her.
Shania's stare dropped down, trying to avoid his eyes, as she thought of what to say. She had not had much time to think about what she was going to tell him and now that the time was here, she was feeling guilty.
"What is going on? Where is he?" Zehava stammered out, taking an uneasy step toward her. She flinched back.
"I…I coul—" she stuttered, her eyes locked with his now. The look he was giving her cut her very soul. "I could not save him."
"What do you mean you could not save him? Where is he? Is he still alive?" he barked, grabbing her by the shoulder, out of frustration and to help steady himself.
"He is with the Shaman - I could not free him. Would have been caught, everyone die," Shania explained, her eyes welling up with moisture.
"Is he still alive?" Zehava shouted, louder than he had intended.
Shania's eyed the ground again nervously. "Not for long."
"Where is he?" he growled.
"Large hut, at the far end of the village."
He pushed her away hard as he stumbled for the large barn doors.
"You never make it - they kill you!" she cried out to him. "Your friend might already be dead. We can make it, you and me. Two lives for one."
"He would not leave me behind if there was a chance I was still alive," he barked back, drawing his sword.
"They kill you before you make it to him." She ran to his side and pulled on his arm.
Zehava yanked his arm from hers with a snarl; several more wounds opened. He continued his way to the door before he stumbled and collapsed to the ground. He let out a loud curse as he pushed himself back up, using his sword for support. His anger fueled him now.
"No go, no go!" the man cried from his corner again.
"SHUT UP!" Zehava hissed back and the man curled into a ball, whimpering.
Zehava took several deep breaths, gathering his wits and will to move. He looked back to Shania. Her eyes were glimmering and confused. "True friendship is so much more than life and death."
He pushed open the barn doors, almost falling over as he did so. He stumbled forward, the tip of his sword cutting a thin line into the dirt beside him. He could see activity all around him from the corners of his eyes, but no one seemed to take notice of him. One foot in front of the other, he forced himself on - toward the hut.
The cool night air helped clear his head, bu
t also nipped at his oozing wounds. His breaths were labored as he fought through the pain of walking. He did not care anymore - he knew he was going to die. He accepted it.
Attentions were piqued as the feeble warrior staggered pitifully across the village. A crowd gathered in his pathway towards the hut. Warriors, children and women, watched him, pointing and laughing.
Zehava stopped a dozen yards away from the crowd, wondering why they had not cut him down already. I will not be taken prisoner again, he promised himself. He lifted his blade and tried to form his stance. Blood from his open wounds ran freely down his arms and legs, dotting the ground beneath him.
The group all broke into a howling laughter when they watched the wounded warrior lift his sword. One of the warriors stepped out and challenged him, grabbing a small dagger from one of the children. He turned to the crowd and said something as he pointed to the dagger. They all laughed aloud. He turned back to Zehava and mocked his pathetic threat, by raising the small dagger in the air. The group of savages howled all the louder.
Zehava clenched his teeth - he wanted to die with dignity. He tightened his grip on his sword. His nostrils flared in defiance, as he went forward to meet his challenger.
The camp grew suddenly bright behind the clustered group of barbarians. Two massive spheres of fire assaulted the tightly formed group, bursting on contact. Flames erupted and tasted all those within its range. By the time it was over, many bodies lay unmoving and blackened, while many more still tried futilely to quench the hungry fire's appetite by rolling on the ground frantically. The group pushed and battered each other aside, showing no remorse for anyone but themselves.
The blast caused Zehava to falter and hit the ground hard. The brute who had challenged him now ran toward him maliciously with his dagger held high. Zehava lifted his head up, disoriented and stunned at the scene unfolding around him. He saw the charge and knew he could not stop it. He stared into the savage's fierce eyes and the man jerked suddenly, stumbled, and crumbled to the earth in a heap, two arrows protruding out his back.
The False Prince (Fall Of A King Book 1) Page 16