Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [67]
The pit seethed with insects. Trapjaw ants, jumping spiders, cockroaches of every color, fleas, moths, and more swarmed the hole. Many of the specimens were outsize, and several moths had wingspans reaching two hands in width, and stinging proboscises that could uncurl to reach several feet. Pale radiance pulsed from the fat abdomens of flitting lightning bugs, so bright even Murmur had to squint.
“Greetings, Scour,” Murmur addressed the pit. “Can you hear me?”
The insects continued their mad scurrying. Because they were only bugs. But in sum, they contained a seed of Murmur’s sibling.
The infestation represented months of patient collecting. Nor was it complete; many of Murmur’s nightmares and secretly pledged Cabal cultists remained bent to the task south of Airspur, combing the twisted lands of Akanûl for colonies that harbored some fragment of Scour’s essential essence.
“Be patient, my brother,” said Murmur. “You shall soon wake again, as I have, when you’ve eaten enough. Are you hungry?”
Murmur turned and pointed at one of the cells.
“No!” came a hoarse cry from behind the bars.
The nightmare at Murmur’s heels understood. Portalbreaker danced across the uneven rock floor to the cell.
“Open the door, don’t break it,” Murmur said.
Too late; the cell door was already off its hinges, and the cell occupants were screaming their lungs out. Murmur wondered if it shouldn’t release its binding on this particular nightmare and try again …
Portalbreaker entered, bent over a woman with blonde hair shorn close, and snapped the manacle chains restraining her.
She tried to run, but Portalbreaker snatched her up like she was a wayward two-year-old.
Murmur pointed to the pit. The woman struggled so desperately she almost managed to break the nightmare’s hold. Almost.
Portalbreaker went to the cavity and held the woman high over the edge. Her screams reached a crescendo pitch. It grated on the ears of Murmur’s host body.
“Toss her in!”
Portalbreaker released the woman.
The mass of scuttling insects broke her fall. Then they swarmed over her. They covered her like a second skin of carapaces, chitinous legs, and mandibles. Her cries became desperate gasps as they burst from the pit’s funneled walls and echoed around the chamber.
The other captives called out in sympathy, in fear, in terror; each knew their own fate was the same, even if they didn’t know why. Their understanding wasn’t important. What was important was that with each life fed to the pit, Scour grew stronger. One day soon, enough captives would be sacrificed to catalyze Scour’s mind.
Then Murmur would have one of its siblings back. Then they could start anew in a fresh continuum.
The demon dream laughed as it imagined the glorious future they would fashion together. A future of crumbling, burning, screaming ruin!
A future in which the Elder Elemental Eye watched as they consumed Toril from the inside out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
MORNING’S PALE FINGERS REACHED THROUGH THE WINDOW blinds and nudged Demascus awake.
He lay on the guest bed Carmenere had shown him last night. The coverlets were soft and smelled slightly of gardenias. That reminded him of an emotion. A sensation. Something far from here, having to do with a high crystal spire, a fragrant sunrise that smelled of spring flowers, and a fleet …
He couldn’t place it. All that remained as he breathed in the scent and thought about it was a hollow place in his chest.
Demascus supposed he’d get used to such disconnects. In time. For the moment though, he felt like some kind of invalid, stumbling toward recovery. What if he never got his memories back? Then his life would be just glimpses and half-remembered dreams, and nagging feelings of loss.
But after what had happened with Inakin …
After Demascus found himself used as a body shield, he’d blacked out for an instant. The next thing he knew, he was behind Inakin with his scarf