Would the twins return? Hans’ visions had been silent on that front.
Devil’s Choice
For an agonizing two days, Zens sent black-eyed tharuk mind-benders into Roberto’s chamber, trying to break him. Unable to stand watching Roberto gripping his head and writhing on the floor, Ezaara searched the passages for an escape route.
The warren of tunnels led to cave-ins or back to the main tunnel, constantly swarming with tharuks. Useless—there was no way out.
When she returned to her vigil at the chink in the wall, Roberto was moaning, conscious again. He raised his head from the floor, stared straight at the fissure and mouthed, “Help.”
It was all Ezaara needed. She’d already taken freshweed and owl’s wort. She crawled along the tunnel, making her way toward the ventilation shaft to Roberto. Halfway there, snuffling slunk along the tunnel behind her. Tharuks. She scrambled to the ventilation shaft. Hoisted herself inside the narrow opening.
She stopped around the first bend, wrapping her camouflage cloak around her. Hopefully, the shaft entrance was too small for the beast. Quietening her breath, she strained, listening.
Tharuk stench wafted along the shaft. Her taste buds writhed.
Did it know she was here? With freshweed and her camouflage cloak, she should be undetectable. Was this a random coincidence? The beast’s boots scraped on the tunnel walls. Its harsh breathing rasped along the shaft. Ezaara’s blood ran cold. She drew her knife from her boot.
The tharuk grunted and wheezed. Thrashing and thumps echoed along the shaft. The beast wasn’t getting any closer. Knife at the ready, Ezaara cocked her head. She peeked around the bend. Even with owl wort, it was too dark. Knife between her teeth, she shook her vial of dragon’s breath, holding it up. The bright light revealed a tharuk wedged tight in the shaft’s mouth. It snarled, its arms shooting up to cover its eyes—her light was blinding it.
“Smelled your bread, I did,” it grunted.
Oh, shards, she’d dropped a scrap of bread in the tunnel.
As it lowered its arms, Ezaara rushed forward, plunging her knife into its eye, ramming hard. The knife sunk through the soft gelatinous tissue into the beast’s skull. The monster’s arms flailed, claws swiping her forearm.
Its head and arms slumped to the stone. Dark blood gushed over the rock.
Gritting her teeth against her stinging arm, Ezaara scrambled back and leaned against the wall. Taking a rag from her pouch, she bound her arm. Although the gash was searing, she didn’t dare use piaua. She had to save it for Roberto. The shaft entrance was now blocked from pursuers—but so was her escape. Ezaara doused her light and crawled on through the dark. The ventilation shaft twisted then angled downward, growing lighter. Just around the bend and she’d be there.
Cautiously, she reached out for Roberto. “Are you still alone?”
The crash of his door against stone answered that question.
Ezaara tugged her cloak around her and crouched, motionless.
“There it is, again.” 000’s foul voice drifted up the shaft. “That same scent as from the small tunnel. What did 1352 find?”
“Bread? 1352 still searching,” a grunt answered.
“That runt has a keen nose,” said 000. Boots tromped toward the shaft. “What’s this?”
“A scrap of cloth, sir.”
Oh gods, the fragment of her cloak.
“I know that, 1554.” There was a thump.
The tharuk grunt whimpered. “I can fit in shaft. I is small.”
“Good idea.” Feet neared. Scrapes sounded on the wall.
Ezaara had heard enough—she fled through the shaft in the dark, bashing her knees and scraping her hands. Soon, her hand hit a furry mass—the dead tharuks’ arm. She shoved it aside and braced her feet against the shaft wall. Leaning her back into the corpse’s head, Ezaara shoved. It didn’t budge. She pushed again, but the corpse was stuck.
Ominous shuffling reached Ezaara’s ears. 1554 was heading toward her. Frantically, Ezaara thrust her shoulder at the jammed corpse. She slid her knife between the beast and the stone, trying to jimmy the monster out of the way.
Harsh breathing came around the corner. 1554’s fetid breath filled the tunnel. Ezaara lunged, thrusting her knife. The tharuk grunt slashed. Her knife clattered to the stone. She groped for it. 1554 punched her temple. Her head smacked the wall, and pain ricocheted through her skull. Dizzy. She was so dizzy.
Shuffling backward, 1554 dragged her along the shaft by the throat and hair.
Ezaara’s scalp burned. She curled up, trying to kick the tharuk, but it yanked her hair harder. She screamed.
“Quiet.” It tightened its grip on her throat until her breath rasped.
So much for rescuing Roberto.
§
000 held Ezaara by the scruff of her neck, her legs dangling above the floor. Her jerkin cut into her throat, making it hard to breathe. Not that she’d want to in this stench.
Commander Zens smiled, his bulbous yellow eyes cold. His calculating gaze skittered across her skin. He stretched out his hand. “So, breathing distasteful, is it?” His voice wended through her mind. “Perhaps you’d prefer not to breathe?” He slowly clenched his fist.
Ezaara’s throat tightened. She let out a gurgle, fingers clutching at her neck. Her lungs burned. Gods, no air.
“Drop her, Triple.” Zens laughed, flinging his hand open.
Ezaara smacked stone. Her chest heaved as breath rushed back into her lungs. She’d panicked and forgotten her mental defenses. Zens was a monster—a power-hungry sick being, playing with people’s lives. She scrambled to her feet. While Zens was focused on her, he wasn’t torturing Roberto.
“Stand still.” Zens barked. “Why are you here?”
Ezaara remembered her favorite tree in Lush Valley; the bark against her cheek; a breeze rustling through the bright green leaves. She held the image fast in her mind, stilling Zens’ voice.
Zens growled, flipping his hand.
