Page 53 of Lucifer's Mirror
“What?”
“He almost lost it when you blacked out. He’s been driving us all crazy. Spent most of the time hovering over you, the rest in wolf form, howling his head off.”
“Oh.”
“I still hate him,” he says. “And by the way, thanks for saving my life. I’d be dead if you’d run. So I’m sort of glad you didn’t. And very glad you’re going to be okay.”
“I’m glad as well.”
Half an hour later, and we’re ready to go. Well, everyone but me is ready. I’m just pretending. I’m in the saddle—with Zayne’s help—I’m just not sure how long I’m going to stay there. But Stella will look after me. I hope.
Khaosti is back, but he seems to be keeping his distance—physically and mentally—now that I’m no longer dying. Maybe he regrets showing his softer side. Maybe he thinks it makes him appear weak. Or perhaps he’s keeping his hands off me, like Zayne told him to. Though somehow, I can’t see that happening. I doubt Khaosti ever does anything he doesn’t want to. But who knows? He’s an enigma.
Zayne rides at my side as we set off. He keeps casting me little sideways glances and looks twitchy, as though he’s ready to leap to the rescue if I start to slide off. Or throw himself off as well so I have a softish landing. I’m tempted to see how fast he can move, but I’d probably end up splattered on the ground, and I’m so not up for that.
The day is dull, with gray clouds hanging low in the sky and a mist shrouding the land. Thanouq had handed me a jacket before we set off, made of soft leather. It’s a little too big, but I appreciate it now, hugging it closer to me. We need to backtrack because, when we made our deviation, we were apparently going the wrong way. We ride past the area of the fight, and a tremor sweeps over me. The ground is black with disgusting monster residue, and there’s a faint stench in the air, a mix of sulfur and decay. My stomach churns; it gives me a flashback to the thing’s fetid breath as it leered over me.
The first half-hour is agony, every step jolting me, but after that, I learn how to hold myself so it doesn’t hurt as much. We ride slowly, which I’m sure is for my benefit. I can feel them watching me, and I do my best to sit up straight and look strong.
By the time we stop for lunch, I think I’m about to faint. I’m not the fainting type; really, I’m not. But right now, sitting on Stella and contemplating the vast distance between me and the ground, unconscious feels like a good option. I close my eyes, and my head starts to spin.
When I force them open, everybody else is down off their horses, and I’m still sitting there, peering at the ground, not sure whether I’ll make it. And if I do, I’m pretty sure I won’t manage to stay on my feet.
Zayne takes one look at me, drops his reins, and comes over. He holds out his hands. I’m still not sure it’s a good idea, but finally, I force myself to drag my leg over the saddle and lower myself to the ground. He catches me around the waist, unfortunately, just where my wound is, and I let out a shrill screech.
“God, sorry, Amber,” he says, putting me on the ground. “I didn’t think.”
Sweat is beading on my forehead, and little pinpricks of stars flash in front of my eyes. I’m a mess. I have an almost overwhelming urge to bawl my eyes out. Instead, I lean against Stella for a minute, slowly breathing until I’m sure I can stand up straight on my own. I clear my throat. “I’m good,” I say, “all good. Don’t worry.”
I turn around slowly; everyone is watching me. “I’m good,” I repeat, “I’m not lying; give me something to eat.” They still all look worried, but they move about, getting the horses some water and releasing them to graze. I totter over to a fallen log and gently lower myself onto it. I’m not going to touch my side; I don’t want to see what I’ll find. I have a sneaky suspicion it’s bleeding again, but if I don’t look, it won’t be real.
Someone hands me a mug of water, and I swallow it down, then a sandwich. I don’t even taste it, but I force myself to chew and swallow, chew and swallow. I need my strength. When the food and drink are all gone, I sit there, dreading the moment we have to move again. I think about asking if we can stay, but part of me doesn’t want to. I need to get this journey over with; I need to reach the end of it and find whatever’s waiting for me there.
When it’s time to get back in the saddle, I try not to think about it. I shuffle over to Stella. Zayne has already tightened her girth, and she’s ready for me. He gives me a leg up, and I sit there, holding tight to the pommel. It’s not so bad after all; I can do this.
The mist is all around us now, and I can’t see anything of where we’re going. We just plod on. The ground is quite level, and there’s grass underfoot. On and on, it seems to go on forever until everything is a blur of pain and exhaustion. Finally—I think it’s late afternoon—the mist rises, revealing a flat plain in front of us. It seems to stretch on forever. Far in the distance, I can see birds circling. Big birds: they’re too far away to tell anything else. But we’re heading in their direction anyway.
As we get closer, the stench of death fills my nostrils.
They’re some type of carrion bird, and they’re eating something on the ground—lots of somethings. Pecking and poking at mounds of what I presume are bodies, but bodies of what? The birds are as black as the pit, with demonic yellow eyes. They rise into the air as we draw near, then circle overhead, calling raucously in protest. I can almost feel their anger at being disturbed from their meal.
I don’t want to look because the brief glimpse I got showed me that these were—or had once been—people. There must be about twenty to thirty of them—I don’t want to count—and some are small, like children.
Thanouq and Therion are on their feet, walking between the bodies. They come back to us, and Thanouq’s face is grim.
“Who are they?” Khaosti asks. “What happened here?”
“It’s a slave line,” Thanouq replies. “No doubt they’re heading for the mines in Athalia.”
“You have slaves here?” I ask, my tone horrified. “What sort of world is this?”
“A broken one,” Thanouq replies.
“So why are they dead?”
“I’m guessing this was a clean-up job. Maybe these were ones who could no longer keep up—the weak, the injured, the old… or the young. So they resolved the problem.”
“Why didn’t they free them?” My voice sounds small, but this is horrible. So horrible. I can see the body closest to me. It’s a child—a girl—maybe five years old, and there’s a wound in her chest. Her face stares sightlessly at the sky—the birds have pecked out her eyes. Bile crawls up my throat, hot and bitter, and I turn away, unable to look any longer. I swallow.
